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^Hmbersittp of J^ortf) Carolina 

Carnegie Corporation Jfuno 


Sraftructton in Hihrariansrtjip 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 


(See "Tchumpin," page 3.) 


Illustrated Magazine 

For Girls and Boys 




November, 1874, to November, 1875. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by 


In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 

Library, Univ. of 
North Curoiii 



Aard-vark, The. (Illustrated) James C. Beard 50 

About Heraldry. (Illustrated) Annie Moore 416 

About Two Little Boys. Poem. (Illustrated) K.A.M 688 

Adventure with a Grizzly", An. (Illustrated) Samuel Woodworth Cozzens 359 

African Fashions. (Illustrated) Olive Thornc 104 

Altorf and William Tell. (Illustrated) Emma D. Southwick 108 

American Orators. (Illustrated) William If. Rideing 542 

Among the Lilies. (Illustrated) Emma Burt 510 

Ann's Answer. Verse E. S. F 222 

Ants' Monday' Dinner, The t H. H 33 

Apron : An Acting Charade L. Annie Frost 364 

As we go Along Mary C. Bartlett 691 

At the Window. Poem. (Illustrated) M. M. D. 3S 

Avibus Ou.^e Domus lusorias fingunt, De. Latin Sketch for Trans- > T „ „ , _ 

^- > James C . neara 5^ 2 

lation. (Illustrated) ) 

Baby's Skies. Poem M. C. Bartlett 407 

Bad Luck of Bubby' Cryaway, The. (Illustrated) Abby Morton Diaz 507 

Baker and the Tobacconist, The. Translation of French Story on \ 

„, ( 44 2 

page 200 . . ) 

Billy-Goat School-master, A. (Illustrated) J. R 28 

Birdie's Secret. Poem E. M. Tappan 626 

Bird's-eye View of the Battle of Life, A. (Illustrated) 4. S. W 147 

Birds that Build Play-houses. Translation of Latin Story on pace \ T „ n , _„„ 

J > James C. heard 752 

S82 ' 

Blessed Day, The. Poem. (Illustrated) M. M. D 131 

Blue and Pink Susan Coolidge 245. 

Boarding-School in 1570, A S. S. Colt 630 

Bocko AND THE Deer. (Illustrated) . . Paul Fort 689 

Boulanger et le Marchand de Tabac, Le. French Story for Trans- \ , n ,, „ „c<; 

lation. (Illustrated) .... : ) 

Boy AND Little Dog Bobby. Poem. (Illustrated.) Translated from \ Theodore Fav 

the German of W. Hey by 5 

Boy AND Ox. Poem. (Illustrated.) Translated from the German of \ ^., , r. , c , 

v > I heodore rav 468 

W. Hey by i 

Boy-Astronomer, The Hezekiah Butterworth 93 

Boy-Sculptor, The Emily Noyes 407 

Boy's Idea of Warfare in 1974, A. Picture, drawn by Master Frederick W. Chapman. . 26 

Breakfast-Time. Picture, drawn by E. M. S. Scannell 98 

Breath of Spring, The. Picture, drawn by Mary A. Lathbury 341 

Bridge, The. Verse J. P. B 472 

"Brook, The. Poem. ( Illustrated) Mary JV. Prescott 583 

Busy Saturday. Poem. (Illustrated) Fanny Percival 724 

^By the FIeartii. (Illustrated) .... Carrie Gerrish 1S8 


ICalling the Flowers. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary A. Lathbury 771 

•Capt. Porter and the Essex; or. The First Battle of Admiral ) ~ -, .„ „ . 

> S. G. W. benjamin 721 

Farragut. (Illustrated) ) 

Cherries. Poem Emily Huntington Miller 526 



Cherry-Cheek. Poem Anna Boynlon Averill 350 

Chickadees, The. (Illustrated) Harvey Wilder 79 

Chickens. Poem Rose Terry Cooke 642 

Children's Crusade, The. (Illustrated) Noah Brooks 162 

Chimney-Sweeps, Past and Present. (Illustrated) William H. RiJeing 211 

Christinchen's Answer Julia S. Turwiler 404 

Christmas Legend, A. (Illustrated) • Florence Scannell 141 

Christmas Tablet 162 

Cinderella. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 329 

Coal-Imp, The. Poem. (Illustrated"! C. P. Cranch 220 

Cold Gray Stones Margaret Ey tinge 409 

Colorado Snow-Birds. Poem. (Illustrated) H. H 330 

Comanches' Trail. The. (Illustrated) Samuel Woodworth Cozzens 94 

Coon's Mistake, The Ellen Francis Terry 36 

Couple of Workers in the Harvest-field, A. Picture 708 

Cradle of Noss, The. (Illustrated) 420 

Cruise of the " Crusoe," The. (Illustrated) George Valentyne 598 

Curious Bouquet, A. Picture, drawn by W. H. Gibson 643 

Cyclops, The. (Illustrated) Mary Treat 689 

Dick Hardin at the Sea-shore. (Illustrated > Lucy J. Rider 45 

Dick's Spiritual H elp Kate W. Hamilton 605 

Domino Bridge, The. (Illustrated) Henry W. Troy 178 

Dressed in White. (Illustrated) Julia P. Ballard 660 

Droll Fox-Trap, A C. A. Stephens 252 

Druids and their Temples, The. (Illustrated) Alexander Wainwright 469 

Dwarf's Mirror, The. (Illustrated) W. N. Mecks 182 

East Indian Toys. (Illustrated) ... Alice Donlevy 52 

Echoes. Poem J. P. B 705 

Eight Cousins. (Illustrated) Louisa M. Alcott 132, 203, 266, 

334.399.46i, 526,611,665, 727 

"El Gooffah." (Illustrated) 4. Locher 703 

Elsie's Winter Walk. (Illustrated) L. G. Warner 139 

Faint Flower, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary A. Lathbury 597 

Fair AT Pau, The. (Illustrated) 4unt Fanny 347 

Fairy Umbrellas. Poem. (Illustrated) C.A.D 694 

Fairy Wedding, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary A. Lathbury 251 

Fashions in Valentines. (Illustrated) Alexander Wainwright 242 

Fays, The. Poem. ( Illustrated) Amelia Daley Alden 496 

Feast of Dolls, The. (Illustrated) William E. Griffis 317 

Feast of Flags, The. (Illustrated) William E. Griffis 426 

Flower-Girls. Poem Lucy Larcom 107 

Forest Family, The. (Illustrated.) Translated from the Swedish by. . .Selma Borg and Marie A. Brawn 99 

Fourteen Monkeys Helen C. Weeks 102 

Fox and a Raven, A. (Illustrated) Rebecca Harding Davis 216 

Fred's Easter Monday Helen C. Weeks 356 

Friends. Poem. (Illustrated) L. G. IVarner 91 

Frigate-Bird, The. (Illustrated) John Lewces 725 

Funny Kings, The. (Illustrated) Hezekiah Buttenvorth 153 

Garden of the Gods, The. (Illustrated) Eliza Greatorex 65 

Ghost that Lucy Saw, The ( . Maria W. Jones 51 

Girl of Stars, A. (Illustrated) Eliza C. Durgin 3C2 

Glance at Rhineland, A (Illustrated) E. D. Southwick 576 

Glimpse at Naples, A. (Illustrated) Prof. Jsaac E. Hasbrouck 275 

Gold-Robin. Poem Annie Moore 346 

Grasshopper, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Marie A. Brown 415 

Great Freshet, The. (Illustrated) Jennie E. Zimmerman 342 

Great Speculation. A. (Illustrated) Rossiter Johnson 546 



Great Traveler, A. (Illustrated) John Lemees 255 

Gunpowder Plot, A. ( Illustrated) William L. Sheppard 639 

Half-Dozen Young Rascals, A. (Illustrated) Nathaniel Chills 24 

He Did n't Mind — and what Told Margaret Eytinge 483 

" Hello ! " Picture 575 

Hidden Treasure, The. ( Illustrated) 5. G. IV. Benjamin 30 

Holiday Harbor. (Illustrated) S. B. C. Samuels 112 

Hornbill, The. (Illustrated) Fred Beverly 151 

Horse and the Wolf, The. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 578 

How Dolls are Made. (Illustrated) Olive Thome 228 

How IT Went. (Illustrated) Sarah Winter Kellogg 743 

How the Cars Stopped Charles Barnard 22 

How the Grasshoppers Came 4 Nebraska Woman 539 


> George J . I arney SS 2 

Ago. (Illustrated) ) 

How the Noes Did It. (Illustrated) Charles L. Norton 638 

How to Camp Out at the Beach Frank E. Clark 504 

How to Make a Boat. (Illustrated ) Frederic G. Mather 568 

How Trotty went to the Great Funeral. (Illustrated) Elizabeth Stuart Phelps it 

Hunting for My Horses. (Illustrated) John A. Emery 764 

Indian Story, An. (Illustrated) Kate Foote 7°5 

In the Dory. Poem Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 159 

I Wonder Why. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary A. Lathbury 711 

Jack's Independence Day. (Illustrated) Rose Terry Cooke , 521 

Jenny Paine's Hat. (Illustrated) Mary L. Bollcs Branch 767 

Jessie. Poem Bret Harte 141 

Jewelled Tree, The. Poem. (Illustrated) 4. M. Machar 78 

Jingles : 53, 138, 363, 556, 

570, 622, 647, 702, 726, 767 

Jofin Spooner's Great Human Menagerie. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 378 

Jonah. (Illustrated) Helen C. Weeks : 644 

Jokkoree. (Illustrated) Thomas Dunn English 143 

Kings of France. Poem Mary W. Lincoln 215 

Knight AND THE Castle, The. (Illustrated) Rebecca Harding Davis 393 

Lark's Nest, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary E. Bradley 35 

Lazy Little Boy, The. Translation of French Story on page 740 of 

Vol. I 

Legends and Superstitions N. S. Dodge 26 

Life of a Clothes-Moth, The. (Illustrated) Prof. A. W. Rattray 490 

Lilly Knows it 's Tom. Picture, drawn by Frank Beard 36 

Little Boy Blue, come Blow your Horn. Picture, from a painting 

by Michetti 

Little Christie. (Illustrated) Amalie La Forge 280 

Little Girl who would n't say Please, The. Poem. (Illustrated). . M. S. P 471 

Little Girl's Story, A 4bby Morton Diaz 83 

Little Gretchen and her Kid. (Illustrated) K 294 

Little Music-King, The. (Illustrated) Emily Noycs 129 

Little Torn Primer, The Margaret Eytinge 244 

Little Truth-Teller, A. Poem Edgar Fawcett 738 

Little Whimpy. Poem. (Illustrated) M. M.D 85 

Live Meteor, A. ( Illustrated) Mary E. C. Wyeth 429 

London Child's Holiday, A. (Illustrated) William H. Rideing 682 

Lord Cornwallis's Day C. C 750 

Lullaby, A, Poem. (Illustrated) J. G. Holland 7 

Mabel's Troubles. (Illustrated) Benjamin E. Wool/ 86 

Machen. German Sketch for Translation Mrs. IV. S. Phillips 117 

March. Poem '. Lucy Larcom 308 





Marigold House. (Illustrated) Sarah O. Jewett 571 

Marmosets, The. (Illustrated) 245 

Master Toto's Canary. Poem Sarah D. Clark 538 

May's Christmas-Tree. (Illustrated) Olive Thome 179 

Milmy-Melmy. Poem. (Illustrated) Rachel Pomeroy 457 

Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question. (Illustrated.) Arranged 1 

_ . B. Bartlett 56 

for parlor representation by ) 

" Miss Muffett " Series, The. (Illustrated) ' 556, 622, 664, 751 

Mistletoe Bough, The. Arranged for parlor representation 191 

" Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary." Picture, drawn by E. M. S. Scannell 397 

Mr. Bull-frog's Party. Poem. (Illustrated) .31. II". S 607 

Mrs. Headache A-'ieff 479 

Mrs. Pope and the Bear. (Illustrated) Franklin B. Cage 680 

My First Trout. (Illustrated) Edward II'. Cady 459 

Nanny Ann. Poem. (Illustrated) M.M.D 377 

Naughty Little Grandnieces, The. (Illustrated) Elsie Gotham 422 

Nest in the Old Green Tree, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Sidney Dayre 477 

New-Comer, The. Picture, drawn by F. S. Church 409 

Nicholas ! St. Nicholas ! Ice-boat Song from '• Hans Brinker," set to \ „ , ,. , 

13 > George J. Huss : . 262 

music by > 

Old Folks' Concert, An. Picture, drawn by Mary A. Lathbury 356 

Old Peanut's Thanksgiving. (Illustrated) Mary Haines Gilbert 39 

One Boy's Opinion of the "Good Old Times." Poem Mrs. Julia A. Camay 752 

One of the Wonders of Colorado. (Illustrated) Cyrus Martin, Jr 609 

Our Dogs. Poem. (Illustrated) S. S. Colt Si 

Our Flag in 1775 and in 1S75. Picture, drawn by -;. C. Warren 540 

Parsee Children. (Illustrated) Fannie Roper Feudge 481 

"Penny ye Meant to Gi'e, The." Poem. (Illustrated) //. H 759 

Perry and Terry. (Illustrated) Nellie Eyster 485 

Peterkins' Journey again Postponed, The Lucretia P. Hale 221 

Peterkins Sno\ved-up, The Lucretia P. Hale 375 

Peterkins too Late for Amanda's School-Exhibition, The Lucretia P. Hale 772 

Picture in the Fire-place Bedroom, The. (Illustrated) Vary A. Hallock 248 

Pilot-Boat, The. (Illustrated) Major Traverse 351 

Pine-Stick Doll, The. (Illustrated) Mary L. B. Branch 593 

Pleasant-Spoken. (Illustrated) Author of "Rullcdge" 411 

Poll Tadpole. Poem. (Illustrated) Rose Terry Cooke 398 

Poor Puck. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary A. Lathbury 432 

Potato Story which Begins with a Bean-pole, A Abby Morton Diaz 749 

Pretty Sure Shot, A. Picture, drawn by C. G. Bush 219 

Prudhomme and the Little Army. (Illustrated i M. E. Dousman 318 

Prue's Dolls Alary N. Preseott 69 

Pussy's Lesson. Picture, drawn by E. M. S. Scannell 161 

Queen Blossom. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 443 

Ragamuffin Party, A. (Illustrated). ..' Lucy G. Morse 472 

Rhyming Play. Poem J. D. Locey 484 

Roses Lily De Sozia Wood 541 

Santa Claus and his Men. Poem. (Illustrated) C. A. Lynde 16S 

Seas of Grass Ethel C. Gale „ „ 77 

Sea-weed Album, The. (Illustrated) Delta 627 

Sewing. Poem. (Illustrated) Luella Clark 679 

" She puts it in its Little Bed." Picture, drawn by J. Wells Champney 761 

Si Jura; or, The Origin of Rice. (Illustrated) George Lowell Austin iS 

Skipping-Rope, The. Poem Laura Ledyard 420 

Snow-King, A. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 304 

Some Queer Animals. (Illustrated) Ella Rodman Church 739 

Some Queer Dishes '. Fannie Roper Feudge 677 



Some Young Readers of St. Nicholas Mrs. J. G. Burnett 761 

Song of the Canary, The Margaret Ey tinge 92 

Squirrel's Stratagem, The. (Illustrated) Emma Burt. ... 657 

Story for the Bird-defenders, A Helen B. Phillips 489 

Story of a Birch-bark Boy, The. (Illustrated) : Isabel Francis 223 

Story of a Parrot, The. (Illustrated) Hezekiah Buttenoorth 201 

Story of the Maple-Tree, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Anna C. Brackett 16 

Taking Comfort in One's Own House. Picture, drawn by Jessie Curtis 10 

Tate's Doll's Wedding Penn Shirley 20 

Tchumpin. (Illustrated) C. A. Stephens 1, 72 

That Bird ; William S. Walsh 708 

That Bunker-Hill Powder. (Illustrated) George J. Varney 332 

'• There was an Old Woman Tossed up in a Basket." (Illustrated) ' 480 

This Poor Fellow never had a Nest. Picture, drawn by Fortier Concklin 47S 

Three Times One. Poem Rachel Pomeroy 659 

Tommy, the Soprano. (Illustrated) Charles Barnard 148 

Tom's Deluge Mrs. H. Hudson Holly 556 

Tony's First Stilts. Pictures, drawn by Frank Beard 676 

To Oblige a Friend. (Illustrated) no 

Totty's Arithmetic. Poem E. S. F 546 

Training-School for Sailors, A. (Illustrated) : . . William If. Rideing 2S7 

Transit of Venus, The. (Illustrated) Pamelia T. Smiley 8 

Two Friends, The. (Illustrated) Paul Fort ' 265 

Umbrellas. (Illustrated) Fannie Roper Feudge 623 

Venus of Milo. (Illustrated) M. D. Ruff 47 

Very Comfortable. Picture 748 

" Visit from St. Nicholas, A." Poem. Fac-simile of Original MS 160 

Visit from St. Nicholas, A 161 

War of the Rats and Mice, The. Poem. (Illustrated) George W. Ranch 296 

Water-Bear, The. (Illustrated) Mary Treat 274 

Way they Come, The. Verse M. F. B in 

Wedding of the Gold Pen and the Inkstand, The Alice Williams 6 

" Welcome, Little Stranger." Picture, drawn by Frank Beard 447 

Why Walter Changed his Mind Henrietta H. Holdich 299 

Wild Sheep and the Tame, The. (Illustrated) Ethel Gale 558 

Winter-Friends. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary E. Bradley 285 

Wishing-Stone. AND how it WAS Lost, The Emily Huntington Miller 625 

Working on the Fourth of July. (Illustrated) Ruth Kenyon 554 

Young Surveyor, The. (Illustrated) /. T. Trowbridge 169, 234, 308, 

367. 434. 497. 559. 631,695, 753 

YUSUF. (Illustrated ) Sara K'eables Hunt 42 


Illustration by Mary A. Lathbury, " Jack-in-the-Pulpit " — Introduction— Trowbridge and the Drowning Boy 
— The Torricellian Tube — The Whistling-Tree — Gourds and Pumpkins — An Iron-clad Rat's Nest — Turning 
a Desert into an Ocean — Could it or Not ? — Beware of the Jinnee ! — Something for the Big Folks, 54 ; Sea- 
shells in the Andes — The World on a Mock-Orange — Jack is Puzzled — Preferred a Feather Bed — A Great 
Spread — Girl-Stars — The Heathen Chinee — Almonds and Peaches — Bonnet-Pieces, 122 ; A Telegram to Jack — 
The Birds' Christmas Carol — Careless English — Jack as a Postman — Crabs in Oysters — Little Truthful — The 
Ugly Little Duck that the Chickens Drove Away — Ancient Houses in Colorado — A New-Year's Verse, 194; 
Crows' Nests made of Fish-Bones — Tumble-Weeds — The Summer-Surgeon — Sailors' Language — A Letter to 
Jack — Starving Children — Bergmeal — The Birds, 25S ; March — Serious Accidents — Clouds — Shooting Law- 
yers — Brazil-Nuts — A Seedling Lifting a Millstone — A Silk-lined House — Looking at a Thing with Different 
Eyes, 322 ; A Sermon — A Slight Interruption — Too Much to Believe — Herbivorous Animals and Carnivorous 


JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT — Continued. 

Plants — The Longest Word — Why isn't the Offer Taken Up? — Surveyors Saved by a Horse — What an 
Army of Toadstools Did — A Dangerous Cradle, 3S6 ; The Sad Story of Little Jane — Charles Dickens and the 
Blind Children — Those Brazil-nuts — Queer Eyes — Joy-bells — Eddie and his Twirl Poetry — Have Flies and 
Gnats Noses ? — A Hard Case, 450 ; Letter from Jack's Cousin — What is a Berry ? — Cooling the Thermometer 
— Ready-made Honeycomb — The Monkey and the Looking-glass — Bird's Nest in a Head of Cabbage — Tree- 
ferns — Coal Made out of Ferns — Cedron-nuts — William Grimm's Courting — A Mere Remark of Jack's, 514; 
July — Tom Hughes on Fighting — Can the Telegraph Sing? — Grammar in Rhyme — The Company Plan — 
The Inventor of the Wheelbarrow — Step Over — A Letter from Scotland to the Trailing Arbutus — Spelling 
out of School, 5S6 ; Jack and Hot Weather — Composition of Common Air — Lightning — Metoposcopists — 
Attraction of Gravitation — Fixed Stars — Mosquitoes — Dodecahedrons — Artesian Wells — Mushrooms and 
Toadstools — Surveying by Triangulation — Miasma — Mrs. Barbauld's " Evenings at Home " — Specific Gravity 
— An Explanation — A Change of Base, 64S ; Dumb Dogs — All Sorts of Hairs — Dogs that go " a-Crabbing " 
— Birds at Sea — On the Edge of a Shower — Among the Leaves — Nurse Appleby — A Currant-bush in a 
Locust-tree, 714; The Spire of St. Nicholas — Who can Count the Stars? — Rats in a Tree — A Crooked Story 
-Growing Mountains — Cows' Upper Teeth — New Reading of "Sing a Song o' Sixpence" — The Largest 
Living Things — The Meaning of " Hurrah" — Mole-furred Horses, 774. 

The Letter-Box .' 57, 124, 196, 260, 324, 388, 452, 516, 58S, 649, 716, 778 

The Riddle-Box. (Illustrated) 59, 127, 198. 263, 326, 390, 454, 518, 591, 654, 71S, 783 

Books for Boys and Girls 1S9 

For Very Little Folks. (Illustrated.) 

The Japanese Mamma and Baby — How the Stranger Bought a Cow for Two Hens — " Ride a Cock-horse," 
62 ; Grandma's Nap — Freddy — Jingle, IlS; The Bell-Ringers, 192 ; The Ride to School—" I Gave my Puss 
a Macaroon," 256 ; The Cry-Baby — Bertha and the Birds, 320 ; The Gingerbread Boy, 448 ; The Laughing 
Duck — " Grandpapa's New Slipper," 512 ; Three Little Dogs, 584; A Short-lived Family, 712 ; A Story of a 
Brave Donkey, 776. 


Tchumpin and the Snake, 1 ; The Garden of the Gods, 65 ; Mozart, the Little Music-King, 129; The Mar- 
mosets, 201 ; The Two Friends, 265 ; Cinderella, 329 ; The Knight and the Castle, 393 ; Milmy-Melmy, 457; 
Charity, 521; The Pine-Stick Doll, 593; Bocko and the Deer, 657; The Battle of the Essex and the 
Phcebe, 721. 

To the Army of the " Little Corporal" S 1 ^ 

Grand Muster-Roli. — Army of Bird-defenders Appendix. 


Vol. II. 


No. 1. 


{From the Russian of Ivan Bestujev.) 

By C. A. Stephens. 


In the military school at Cronstadt the cadets 
have a custom of calling for a story from the 
Colonel-superintendent, at Easter. Russian lads, 
"it should be remarked, have not nearly so many 
story books as American boys. Hence, a story 
from the Colonel is highly prized ; and as soon as 
the Easter festival comes they demand it clamor- 
ously, though at other times they would not think 
of addressing their superior officer, save in the most 
respectful manner. But at Easter there is great 
freedom. It will be remembered that in Russia 
all classes exchange the kiss of Christian greeting 
at Easter ; and in the military schools the Czar 
himself kisses the cadets, in full uniform. 

There are very many quaint and peculiar customs 
common to the Russians. 

On the present occasion the lads who had called 
for the Easter story were all assembled in the right 
wing of the ordnance room. It was past three 
o'clock; they were in full dress. Colonel Demi- 
doff passed down the forms, saluting each in turn, 
then took his seat on the platform, smiling under 
his grey mustaches. 

" So then you want your story," said he, in his 
crisp, military tones. "A story it shall be. I will 
tell you of a Kalmuck boy who was once my horse- 
boy, and who has risen since then by his courage 
and energy to be a captain in the Kier regiment 
of Cossacks. 

" I tell you of this boy because I want you to 

see and to realize that a stout heart, a brave mind 
and an active body will always make their way in 
the world, even from the lowest ranks in life ; and 
at the same time I wish you to remember that 
courage, good sense and bodily strength can each 
be cultivated, and are, to great extent, within the 
reach of every one of you. 

" His name was Tchumpin. 

" But first, I must tell you how this Kalmuck lad 
came to be my horse-boy. At that time I held 
the rank of major and was attached to the corps of 
mining engineers at Barnaoul, in South-west Si- 
beria. Barnaoul is the head-quarters of the mining- 
operations carried on in the Altai mountains. All 
the gold and silver which the Siberian mines yield 
belongs, as you well know, to His Majesty the 
Czar; and the mining engineers are as much in 
his service as are the military officers. Gold is ob- 
tained throughout a great extent of the Altai range. 
Every year new tracts and districts are explored 
and new mines, with their works, are established. 

" On the first day of May of that year I was de- 
tailed, together with an assistant engineer and a 
guard of seven Cossacks, to explore one of the 
southerly spurs of the range, and examine the beds 
of the torrents, both those "flowing into the Irtish 
and those flowing southward into the great lake of 
Altin Kool. Our march would take us nearly 
eight hundred versts* from Barnaoul. We were 
to be gone the whole summer. To carry our in- 
struments and our provisions, which consisted 

* A verst i> 3,501 ft. ; about two-thirds of an English mile. 

Vol. II.— 1. 



simply of dried black bread, sugar, tea and vodka,* 
we had a drove of twenty-four pack-horses. And 
as the journey was performed on horseback, we 
each had one saddle-horse, and the Cossacks were 
well mounted. 

"The country through which we were to pass 
was a wild, unexplored region. Constant care 
would be needed to keep our animals and baggage 
from straying and getting lost in the forests or 
among the crags. I had given orders that drivers 
should be obtained ; and I was much astonished to 
learn on the morning of our march that Lieut. 
Stephanish, my assistant, had hired but one boy 
for the whole management of the baggage. On 
expressing my surprise and displeasure, which I 
did in round terms, Lieut. Stephanish replied that 
he was a very active, hardy lad, and used to horses 
from his childhood. Even then I was but half 
satisfied, and wishing to see the boy, rode back to 
the rear of the column. There I espied him, 
perched on the pack of the hindmost horse. He 
instantly saw that I was observing him, but merely 
sat a little straighter and bore himself like a 
conscious soldier. You would have laughed to see 
him. He was not more than fourteen years old, 
and scarcely as tall as any of you at that age. But 
though not heavily built, he was supple and active 
as a lynx. His eyes were jet black and sparkled 
like stars. He had a high, round head with a 
single long tuft of crow-black hair hanging from 
the crown far down his back. His features wore a 
look of energy which was almost eagerness. There 
was that about the lad which inspired confidence, 
and I said no more to Lieut. Stephanish, though I 
still feared that he had trusted too much to a mere 
boy, even though he might prove smart for his 

".All day we rode steadily southward, with the 
lofty blue peaks of the Altai towering to the east. 
The air was wonderfully clear. The clouds floated 
like silvery fleeces at vast heights. To the west- 
ward a great steppe was beginning to show green 
through its dun, dead mantle of the past year. In 
all the little thickets we could hear the refitchecks f 
calling softly to each other, while here and there 
a great gluckaree\ sprang up from the larches with 
mighty flaps of its wings and soared splendidly 
away. Hares were constantly running before us; 
and shortly after noon we sighted five wolves a few 
hundred yards to the right of our course. They 
stood on the edge of a green birch thicket and eyed 
us sullenly, neither offering to attack us nor to run 
away. It was a wild country, and we were bound 
for still more savage solitudes, where aside from 
wild beasts, we should have to guard against the 

attacks of robber-bands from the hordes of the 

"On the second day we entered among the 
mountains, following the valley of the river Tchu- 
rish. The weather, which had been so fine when 
we left Barnaoul, now changed. Dark and lowery 
masses of cloud hung over the mountains on both 
sides of the valley, and several times during the 
afternoon we heard the heavy rumble of thunder. 
That night we encamped on the north bank of the 
river in a wood of larches, surrounded by immense 
rocks and jagged crags. 

"As it portended rain my tent was pitched 
against the trunks of three great larches growing 
close together, the foliage of which was so thick 
overhead that the Cossacks declared no rain would 
penetrate it. In front a great fire was kindled, about 
which tea was prepared and drank, and our even- 
ing rations eaten before darkness gathered in. Near 
by, the river roared and foamed over large rocks 
with a ponderous, plunging sound. The red glare 
from our fire was reflected on the torrent. It was 
a sheltered nook ; but I saw that the blackening 
clouds were rolling down in somber masses, and the 
thunder still muttered hoarsely. The Cossacks had 
set up their tent near by ; and the horses were 
tethered to the neighboring trees. 

"Having written up my journal and placed my 
arms where they would be secure from the storm, 
which I felt sure would burst upon us before morn- 
ing, I spread my voilocks § upon boughs and before 
long fell asleep. 

"A tremendous clap of thunder startled me on a 
sudden. I sat up and looked around. Lieut. 
Stephanish was still sleeping. The rain was pour- 
ing down. It beat into the tent in a thick mist, 
immediately there came a second deafening crash, 
then others in quick succession. The storm was 
upon us. I took out my watch, and by a flash of 
the almost continuous lightning saw that it was 
nearly one o'clock. Outside, our fire was ex- 
tinguished. The roar of the river was drowned in 
the roar of the storm, which was rushing down the 
valley, wrenching off branches and uprooting 
mighty trees in its course. The thunder grew still 
louder and heavier. Every flash seemed nearer. 
Those who have never witnessed the electric tem- 
pests of Siberia can have little idea of them. The 
clouds came overhead and hung there with one 
continuous blaze and roar. Stephanish roused up 
and stared about him. With the flashes we could 
see the clouds which seemed to rest in a black mass 
on the tree- tops. 

"And now happened a most singular electric 
phenomenon, such as I have never witnessed in any 

* Vodka, the Russian whisky. 

t Reptchecks, tree-partridges. \ Gluckaree, a ki.nd of large black cock, often weighing thirty pounds. 

§ Voilocks, blankets ; woolen robes 

iS 7 4-] 


other country. The very tre'es seemed on fire. 
Blue and lambent flames tinged the boughs and 
played about the trunks. It was a cold, pale light, 
in which objects were shown in ghastly and un- 
earthly guise. The Cossacks came crowding into 
my tent, muttering their prayers and devoutly 
crossing themselves. They shuddered and quaked 
with their fears. Little Tchumpin came in behind 
them. Thinking the boy must be greatly terrified, 
I called him to my side and bade him sit down by 
me on the voilocks. Judge, then, of my surprise, 
when in a lull of thunder, he said to me in low, yet 
resolute tones, ' Never mind it, barin. * I 've seen 
it worse than this ! ' 

" I had thought him terrified, and here the little 
monkey was trying to encourage me! 

" A moment later one of the horses broke loose, 
and began to run about, snorting loudly. Before I 
could prevent him, the boy rushed out and did not 
return till the horse was again securely haltered. 

" For morethan three hours the storm continued 
with its thickly-streaming fires and terrific thunder- 
peals, beneath which the earth trembled at every 
crash. Never shall I forget that night of tempest 
and flame, nor with it the dauntless little fellow who 
stood cool when strong men shuddered with terror. 
It was the first glimpse I had of his wonderful spirit 
and pluck. But I determined not to spoil the lad 
by making too much of him. 

" The next day we went on up the valley of the 
Tchurish, crossed the dividing ridge which marks 
its head-springs, and thence descended upon a wide 
desert steppe, intersected by sterile, rocky ridges, 
which, like great sea-waves, succeeded each other 
for more than fifty versts. 

" On these bare ridges we began to see serpents. 
They glided away from before us with angry hisses. 
They were of several varieties. The first we saw 
were of a slatey-grey color, two or three feet long, 
and rather sluggish. I do not think that these 
were poisonous. The horses did not shy from 
them as they often do from venomous snakes. We 
trod many under foot. But on one of the succeed- 
ing ridges we fell in with a larger species, jet black 
in color, more than a yard in length, and very 
active. These, however, ran swiftly away at our 

" Farther on, a different and very beautiful species 
began to rear their heads and hiss at our approach. 
They were of a pale green hue, clouded with black 
and had deep crimson spots on their sides. They 
were as large as the black variety, but not nearly so 
active. The horses shied slightly from these. 
Nevertheless, we made our way without hindrance, 
till on coming to the foot of an unusually high and 
stony ridge my horse suddenly stopped short, 

* Barin, sir, or your honor. 

snorting violently. In a second I saw the cause of 
its alarm. On a rock, half-a-dozen yards away, a 
much larger serpent lay coiled. It had seen us. 
Slowly it raised its head a foot or more. Its eyes 
were red, like live coals. Its tongue played and it 
began to hiss furiously. The Cossacks shouted to 
warn me that its bite was sure death. They knew 
it well and dared not go near it. I feared lest 
it might strike the legs of the horses, and drawing 
one of my pistols fired at its neck, but missed it. 
I was about to draw my other pistol, when little 
Tchumpin, who had slipped down from his horse, 
stole past my side, whip in hand. 

" ' I will soon kill it, barin,' he said. 

" His air was so confident I determined to let him 
try. His whip was of the fashion in use with Tartar 
teamsters, — a heavy, ashen stock, to which is fast- 
ened a long lash, or thong, of leather. Carefully 
measuring the distance with his eye, the boy 
whirled the whip around his head in a circle, then 
struck out at the hissing reptile. The thong 
snapped almost as loudly as the pistol shot as the 
tip of it fell on the snake's crest, causing it to fall at 
full length off the rock. But it was only stunned. 
Before it could recover itself, however, Tchumpin 
took up a stone, and throwing it, made so deft a 
cast as to nearly sever its head from its body. Two 
of the Cossacks, who had dismounted, now assisted 
him to finish the reptile. On stretching out this 
serpent's body I found it to measure an inch over 
two yards in length, and its body was rather thick 
in proportion. It had two venomous fangs. Its 
color was a deep brown, with red and green 
spangles on its sides. I have since learned that the 
celebrated cobra of India is not more fatal in its 
bite than this parti-colored serpent of the steppes. 

" After this adventure, Tchumpin went ahead 
with his whip for several versts, and killed several 
serpents of the same species, but none so large as 
the first. 

" On the third day, after crossing this steppe 
and entering the mountains to the southward, we 
descended into the valley of another large stream 
which bears no name on the maps, but which I 
called ' Tchumpin,' from an exploit performed by 
our hardy little horse-boy. It is a very rapid river. 
On the night after reaching it in the afternoon, we 
encamped beside a roaring par rock. \ The parrock 
was not far from two hundred yards in length, with 
a fall of fifty or sixty feet. Huge boulders and 
ledges rose here and there in the channel, while 
the water roared and foamed about the many 
sunken rocks, casting up white jets, and showing 
glassy, rushing currents, pouring with arrowy swift- 
ness, or whirling in fearful whirlpools. Bare, 
water-worn ledges overhung the torrent. As we 

t Parrock, a boiling rapid, or cascade. 




Stood on the overhanging ledges the roar was 
almost deafening. 

"Early the next morning, while dressing, I 
heard the Cossacks shouting and laughing, and on 
going outside my tent, I saw little Tchumpin run- 
ning along the ledges which overhung the parrock. 
He had taken off his clothes and the sun glistened 
on his fresh, naked body. The Cossacks stood to- 
gether on a ledge watching him. After running 
up the bank a considerable distance, the boy poised 
himself for a moment on a projecting rock, then 
plunged head foremost into the rapid. I could 
scarcely believe my eyes. It seemed a leap to cer- 
tain death. A second later his head popped up 
amid the foam, and he was swept down past me 
like a cork, but with his head well above water, and 
steering amid the rocks like a salmon. I expected 
to see him dashed on the jagged boulders, or drawn 
into the roaring eddies; but on he went, past 
them all, darting like an eel on the gleaming, 
black currents. The Cossacks ran along the 
ledges, but were soon left far behind. A moment 
more and he had disappeared far down the parrock. 
I had no thought that he would get out alive. It 
seemed impossible to pass through the rapid and 
live. But in less than a minute I saw him climb up 
on the rocks below, where he sat for a moment to 
rest. Then seeing me standing on the ledges he 
came running up, laughing and brushing the drops 
from his hair. 

" 'Are you not afraid to risk your life thus?' I 
said, sternly. ' Do you not know the danger ? ' 

"The bold boy laughed, and his fearless eyes 

"'Eta nichevo, barin ; ya ochin lubit/'* he 

"And before I could interpose to forbid it he 
darted off and again cast himself into the plunging 
waters. I saw him rise like a duck half out of the 
torrent, take a look ahead, and then he was whirled 
by us faster than any of the Cossacks could run. 
In less than a minute he had gone the whole length 
of the parrock, borne on the surface of the mighty 
flood. Once in the stiller waters below, he swam 
ashore and again came running up where I stood, 
laughing in the wild glee with which the adventure 
had inspired him. 

" 'Truly,' I said, ' his safety is in his very fear- 
lessness.' But the Cossacks exclaimed that he was 

" After crossing the desert steppe where serpents 
so abounded, and after making our way over an- 
other ridge of the Altai, we descended into the 
grassy plains which border on the great river 
Irtish. This was the country of the Kirgis, a 
pastoral, or nomadic, people of the Tartar race, 

* It is nothing, your honor; I love it dearly. 

like the Kalmucks, but differing considerably in 
language and in customs. Some of these people 
are robbers, and live by plundering their more 
peaceful countrymen who, like the patriarchs of 
whom the priest read to us from the Bible this 
morning, have great herds of camels, horses, sheep 
and goats. These have no fixed place of residence, 
but wander through the vast plains wherever there 
is grass for their cattle. 

" We had not proceeded more than a dozen 
versts across this plain before we discovered at a 
distance, broad, dark patches, which the Cossacks 
declared to be droves of horses. We were ap- 
proaching the encampment of some Kirgis chief, or 


sultan, as he is called. (It is from this same race 
that the Turks, with their sultans, who now wrong- 
fully rule Constantinople, are descended). 

" Whether he would be friendly or hostile to us, 
we could not tell. Central Asia is a strange, bar- 
barous land. From one chief the kindest hospital- 
ity will be received, while his next neighbor may 
very likely rob and murder you. Our arms were 
first carefully prepared ; we then moved forward at 
a gallop, and were soon riding through flocks of 
sheep, tended by wild-looking herdsmen, dressed 
in gay-colored fcalats] and caps of fox-skin. They 
regarded us keenly as we passed. No doubt they 
feared we were ourselves robbers, come to plunder 
and drive off their herds. 

"A little farther on we came in sight of the en- 
campment itself, located on the shores of a small 
bush-fringed lake in the midst of the plain. About 

t Kalat, a kind of long frock. 

lS 7 4.' 


It were hundreds of camels. Herds of dark bay- 
horses neighed shrilly as we rode past them ; and 
as we drew nearer packs of savage dogs came rush- 
ing forth, challenging loudly and uttering fierce 
growls. I feared lest they should even grapple with 
our horses and pull them down, like the wolves of 
the steppe, from which they have descended. But 
the lad, Tchumpin, gave them sounding strokes 
with his long whip, from which they sprang aside, 
yelping. One of the Cossacks had spent some 
years among the Kirgis and could speak their 
language. This man I now sent on to announce 
our arrival to the chief, or sultan, who immediately 
sent a dozen of their Kirgis servants to meet me 
and conduct me to his presence. These men were 
richly clad in beautiful silk kalats and broad trousers, 
and after saluting me with profound respect led the 
way to a large yoicrt, * near which a long spear with 
a tuft of black horse-tail was planted in the ground. 
A tall, fine-featured old man was standing in the 
door, and as I drew rein he came forward and gave 
me his hand to assist me to dismount, then touched 
my breast, first with the fingers of his right hand, 
then with those of his left, and bade me welcome 

" The Cossack told him that I was the servant of 
the great Czar of the West, the lord of all Northern 
Asia, and that I was come to explore the country. 

''This sultan's name was Souk. He at once 
conducted me into the yourt. The servants spread 
a beautiful Bokarian carpet, on which I was invited 
to be seated. Tea was then brought in small 
Chinese bowls. 

" Sultan Souk was about seventy years of age, 
stout and squarely built, with broad Tartar features 
and fine, flowing grey beard. He wore constantly 
a close-fitting cap of red silk, embroidered with 
silver. His dress was a long striped robe, or kalat, 
of crimson and yellow silk, with a white shawl about 
his waist. His boots were of red leather, with very 
high heels. His wife was a young and very hand- 
some Kirgis woman, dressed in a black robe of 
Chinese satin, with a red silk shawl about her waist, 
and a white muslin turban, or cap. She and her 
two daughters were seated on voilocks on the farther 
side of the yourt. 

" The furniture and household utensils of these 
yourts are very simple. The fire is made on the 
ground, and in the center of the yourt, while the 
smoke passes through a hole directly overhead. 
The carpets are spread opposite the door-way. 
Strong boxes, made of a dark, heavy wood, contain 
the family riches, which sometimes consist of great 
numbers of ambas, or silver bricks, from the Altai 
mines. There are rolls of rich carpeting from 
Bokhara, and silks from China 

" On one side is the koumis vessel, — a large 
leathern sack, holding from one to two hogsheads. 
Into this mares' milk is poured each day in summer, 
where it soon ferments and turns to koumis, the 
drink so prized by the Kirgis. A bowl of this 
drink was offered me by Sultan Souk, and out of 
courtesy I drank a part of it ; but I cannot say that 
I liked it. The koumis sack is never washed, nor 
even rinsed out. The Kirgis have a saying that to 
wash this vessel will not only spoil the koumis, but 
bring ill-luck to the family. 

" I was shown the sultan's horse trappings. His 
saddle was a very fine one, decorated with silver 
inlaid on iron. The cushions were of velvet. The 
bridle was covered with small iron plates, inlaid in 
the same manner. These trappings cost their 
owner fifty horses, I was informed. 

"The sultan's battle-axe was also a very rich 
and curious weapon. The handle was nearly five 
feet long, of heavy, dark wood, bound with silver 
rings, and the head was double-edged and very 
sharp. A thong through a ring in the end of the 
handle fastened it to his wrist when armed for 

" That evening three sheep were cooked in a 
great iron cauldron ; and this boiled mutton, to- 
gether with koumis, tea and sugar-candies, com- 
posed our supper. That night Lieut. Stephanish 
and myself slept on a carpet in the sultan's yourt. 
The Cossacks, with little Tchumpin, passed the 
night in an adjoining yourt ; for the sultan's en- 
campment consisted of not less than ten of these 
large lodges. 

"In the morning we parted with friendly feelings. 

" Our course was now toward the Irtish, the 
north banks of which we reached the next day. 
There are no bridges in these Tartar countries. 
The rivers must be forded or crossed in boats. At 
this point the Irtish is fully two hundred yards in 
width, and runs past in a Swift, strong current. 
Not more than a verst below there was a consider- 
able cataract, the roar of which was plainly audible 
from where we stood. There were no boats. The 
country was an uninhabited desert. How we were 
to cross so broad and so rapid a stream was -a seri- 
ous question with us. We spent the night in a 
willow copse on the bank. 

' ' Very early the next morning, the lad Tchumpin 
pulled aside the flap of my tent, and bidding me 
good morning, told me that half a verst below our 
camp he had discovered a Kirgis canoe, made of a 
single log, drawn up on the opposite bank, and if 
it was my pleasure he would swim the river and 
paddle it across for our use. 

" ' But the current is swift,' I said. 'Are you 
not afraid ?' 

; " Yourt, a large lodge or tent of skins. Formerly these yourts were mounted on large wheeled platfo: 


" ' Oh, no ! ' he exclaimed, laughing ; ' it is 
nothing at all.' 

" I gave him leave ; and in a moment he had 
thrown off his red frock and trousers and plunged 
in like a duck. To swim so rapid a stream and 

paddle a clumsy log canoe across it are feats which 
few men could have accomplished. Yet to this 
daring lad these feats seemed but as play. In less 
than twenty minutes he had returned with the 
canoe, paddling it swiftly against the current. 

(Conclusion next month.) 


By Alice Williams. 

The Gold Pen wooed the Inkstand. 

The Inkstand was of crystal, with a carved silver 
top. It evidently came of an aristocratic family, 
and was therefore a fitting match for the Gold Pen, 
which also was an aristocrat and carried itself 
haughtily toward the Goose-quill and the Steel 
Pens, its poor relations. 

The wedding was a splendid affair. All the in- 
habitants of the Table were invited, and the great 
Unabridged Dictionary — the true autocrat of the 
Writing-Table — gave away the bride, while the fat 
Pen-Wiper, in scarlet and black cashmere, sobbed 
audibly. (Not that there was anything to sob 
about, but she had heard that it was customary to 
cry at weddings.) 

After the ceremony, "the happy pair received 
the congratulations of their large and distinguished 
circle of acquaintances," as the newspaper reporters 

"Many happy returns," blundered the Goose- 
quill, claiming his privilege as a relation of kissing 
the bride. The Goose-quill had got itself a new 
nib for the occasion, and quite plumed itself on its 

"Wish you joy!" said the Steel Pen, a brisk, 
business-like sort of fellow, leading forward the Pen- 

of sobs. 

" May life's cares rest lightly upon you!" said 
the Paper-Weight. 

" Stick to each other through thick and thin ! " 
said the Mucilage-Bottle. 

" May the impress of the beloved image be in- 
delible in each heart ! " exclaimed the phial of 

" I congratulate you, madame," said the quire 
of Legal-Cap. " The bridegroom is a distinguished 

echoed the Pen-Wiper, with a fresh burst 

fellow — ' Sty fits potent'107' quam gladius I ' Pardon 

the Latin ; but we lawyers, you know, . He ! 

he ! " And he retired with a smirk, quite satisfied 
with his display of erudition. 

" Live ever in a Fool's Paradise ! " growled the 
Foolscap, who was a disappointed old bachelor. 

" May the Star of Love never set in the heaven 
of your happiness ! " simpered the rose-tinted Note- 
Paper, who was always fearfully sentimental, and 
was rumored to be herself in love with the Violet 

"Jove from yciur heads avert his awful wrath, 
And shower blessings on your future path ! 

sighed the Violet Ink, who was said to have actually 
written poetry ! 

(At this the Note-Paper turned a shade rosier 
and murmured, " How sweet ! ") 

"Come right up to the mark of duty," said the 
old Black- walnut Ruler, " and your line of life will 
never go crooked." 

" May love be never erased from your hearts ! " 
said the India-Rubber. 

"And may nothing ever divide you ! " said the 
Ivory Paper-Cutter. 

" Let all your actions bear the right stamp ; and 
above all, never tell a lie!" said the Postage-Stamp 
(which bore the portrait of George Washington, 
and must therefore be excused for introducing the 
latter remark). 

" Don't let the little rubs of life wear out your 
mutual kindliness, my dears ! " said the matronly 
old Eraser. 

" Hech, lad ! " cried the little Scotch-plaid Index, 
which came tumbling out of a volume of Burns, 
" A lang life an' a happy one to you an' your 
bonny bride ! " 

" May you always be wrapped up in each other ! " 

i8 7 4-] 



said the package of Envelopes, who came up in a 

" Though the Gordian Knot was cut," said the 
Penknife (a sharp chap), " may this True-Lover's 
Knot never be severed ! " 

" I hope you'll make your mark in life," said 
the blunt old Lead-Pencil. 

" Look closely," said a Pocket-Microscope ; "but 
for virtues — not for faults." 

" May the remembrance of each unkind word or 

deed be quickly blotted out ! " exclaimed the Blot- 

' Bless ye, my children, bless ye ! Be happy ! " 
said the Big Dictionary, in the (theatrically) pater- 
nal manner. 

Tl\e Gold Pen and the Inkstand did not make a 
wedding tour, but went to live immediately in a 
beautiful bronze stand-dish, in the center of the 

And there they are at this very moment. 


By J. G. Holland. 

ROCKABV, lullaby, bees in the clover ! — 
Crooning so drowsily, crying so low — 
Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover ! 

Down into wonderland — 

Down to the under-land — 
Go, oh go ! 
Down into wonderland go ! 

Rockaby, lullaby, rain on the clover ! 

Tears on the eyelids that waver and weep : 

Rockaby, lullaby- — bending it over 
Down on the mother-world, 
Down on the other world ! 
Sleep, oh sleep ! 

Down on the mother-world sleep ! 

Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover ! 

Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn ! 

Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover ! 

Into the stilly world — 

Into the lily-world 
Gone, oh gone ! 
Into the lily-world, gone ! 



By Pamelia T. Smiley. 

Very much has been said and written during the 
last two years about the transit of Venus, which is 
to occur December 8, 1874. The interest which is 
so generally felt in regard to it has doubtless reached 
many of the readers of this magazine, and they 
very naturally begin to ask, " What is a transit of 
Venus, and why is it of so much importance ? " 
This is what I will try to explain. 

You perhaps all know that Venus, the brightest 
of the planets, is not as far from the sun as the 
earth, and that it revolves round the sun in an orbit 
similar to the earth's orbit. In each revolution, 
therefore. Venus passes between the earth and sun. 


and is then said to be in inferior conjunction. 
When it is on the opposite side of the sun from the 
earth it is in superior conjunction. Thus, in fig. 1, 
suppose E F C represents the orbit of the earth, 
A B v that of Venus, and S the sun. If Venus is 
at V when the earth is at E, it is in inferior con- 
junction. If it is at A when the earth is at E, 
it is in superior conjunction. But the orbit of 
Venus, as you see by the figure, is not in the same 
plane with that of the earth. Now if it were ex- 
tended until it met the earth's orbit, it would be 
represented by the dotted line C D E, and it would 
cross the earth's orbit at the points E and c. 
These points, or the corresponding places A and V, 
in the real orbit of Venus, are called its nodes, 
Now, because of this inclination of the two orbits, 
the sun, Venus and the earth will be in the same 
line only when Venus is at, or near, one of its nodes 
at the time of conjunction. For, if Venus is at B 
when the earth is at F, it would be in inferior con- 
junction, because it is in that part of its orbit which 
is most directly between the earth and sun ; but we 
should see it in the direction of G. If, however, it 
is at its node, v, at the time of conjunction, or 
when the earth is at E, we see it in the same line as 
the sun, and it then appears to pass directly across 
the sun's disc. This is what is called a transit of 

Venus. Venus is opaque, like the earth, shining 
by the reflected light of the sun ; therefore the 
bright side is toward the sun, and at the time of a 
transit it appears to us like a dark spot upon the 
sun's bright surface. 

The transits of Venus happen only at rare inter- 
vals, because it is seldom that the three bodies are 
thus situated in reference to each other. They 
occur in pairs, eight years apart, and between the 
pairs are one hundred and five, or else one hundred 
and twenty-two years. 

The fact that they so rarely happen occasions an 
interest in the transits ; but this is by no means 
the only reason why the}' are so carefully watched. 
Their chief importance lies in this : By observing 
the path which the planet makes across the sun we 
obtain data from which the distance of the earth 
from the sun can be calculated. The ?-elative dis- 
tances of all the planets from the sun is known ; 
therefore, when the earth's distance, expressed in 
miles, is obtained, we have, as it were, a yard-stick 
by which the distances of the other planets can be 
measured. To find the exact length of this yard- 
stick has long been considered the astronomer's 
grandest problem, and a transit of Venus gives 
the most accurate means of doing this. 

The last two transits were in 1761 and 1769. 
Previous to these the estimates which had been 
made of the sun's distance from the earth were very* 
incorrect. The earliest estimate on record made it 
about one-twentieth of its true distance ; and even 
at the time of these transits it was too small by sev- 
eral million miles. These transits were, however, 
watched with great interest, the observations made 
of them carefully compared, and the distance com- 
puted to be about ninety-five million miles. Since 
then astronomers have calculated the sun's distance 
by several other methods, applying principles which 
were not then known, and, although these methods 
are inferior to that furnished by a transit, yet, as 
the different calculations very nearly agree, it is 
supposed they are not far from correct. They show 
the sun's distance to be a little over ninety-one 
million miles. 

The instruments which we now have for measur- 
ing small angles, and the means for determining 
the latitude and longitude of places are much supe- 
rior to those used a hundred years ago, hence the 
observations of the coming transit will be much 
more exact, and will furnish a means of testing the 
accuracy of previous calculations. 



I will now tell you something of how the observa- 
tions are taken, and of the preparations which 
have been made for this purpose. 

The direct object is to obtain what is called the 
sun's parallax. The parallax of an object is its ap- 
parent displacement as seen from two different 
stations. In fig. 2, let the circle ABE represent 
a section of the earth. Two persons, one stationed 

at A, and another at B, are looking at the sun, S. 
The heavenly bodies, though at different distances 
from the earth, appear to us as if they were all situ- 
ated in the same vaulted surface, represented by 
the curved line m G O. The person at A sees the 
sun as if it were at G, while the person at B sees it 
it D. Now, in making tables which shall give the 
position of the heavenly bodies, it is obvious that 
heir places, as seen from any one station upon the 
;arth, cannot be taken, for this would not be correct 
r or any other station. The place given them, 
herefore, is that which they would appear to oc- 
:upy if seen from the center of the earth, for this 
ilways remains the same. The true place of the 
sun, s. then, is at F, and its angular displacement, 
neasured by the angle, B S c, or the arc, F D, is 
ts parallax at the station B ; the angle, A S C, or 
r G, its parallax at the station A. 
The distance of a body affects its parallax ; for 
j t is plain that if the sun were at the more distant 
joint H, its parallax, F N, as seen from A, is much 
ess than if the sun is at the point s. Hence, when 

the sun's true parallax is obtained, it gives an accu- 
rate means of calculating the sun's distance. 

Now Venus is the planet nearest the earth, hence 
its parallax is larger than any other, and can be 
more easily measured. Moreover, Venus is much 
nearer the earth than the sun, and its parallax, of 
course, much greater. Because of this difference 
between the displacement of the two bodies, ob- 
servers at different stations upon the earth will 
refer the planet to different points upon the 
sun's disc. Thus, in fig. 3 (on next page), 
let E, v and S represent the earth, Venus 
and the sun at the time of a transit. An ob- 
server at A would see the planet cross the sun 
in the line D c, while an observer on the other 
side of the earth, at B, would see it cross the 
sun in the line F G. These two lines are of 
unequal length, and the transit, to the ob- 
servers, would be accomplished in unequal 
periods of time. By noting the exact time and 
duration of the transit at these two stations 
and afterward comparing them, the difference 
between the parallax of the sun and that of 
Venus can be obtained, and from this the 
parallax of the sun, and then the sun's distance 
from the earth. It is, of course, impossible to 
obtain stations on directly opposite sides of the 
earth, to watch the transit, yet places are 
selected as far apart as possible, and the neces- 
sary allowance made in the calculations. 

It may at first seem a very easy thing to take 
these observations ; but in reality it is very diffi- 
cult to make them accurate. The instruments 
may not be exact in every particular, and a 
small error in measuring an angle at so great 
a distance as the sun, will make a great difference 
in the result. Clocks may differ by one or two 
seconds, and the state of our atmosphere will affect 
the distinctness with which the planet is seen. 
Then it is extremely difficult to tell the second when 
the edges of Venus and the sun meet, for, as they 
approach, the dark edge of the planet appears 
drawn out toward the sun before it really touches 
it ; and the difference between the real and ap- 
parent contact may occasion a serious error. Hence 
the great importance that everything be prepared 
with the utmost care, and that so far as possible 
there be uniformity in the methods of observing at 
the different stations. 

Another science aids the astronomer in this work 
by giving him a new method of measuring small 
angles in the heavens. It is that of photographing 
the object, and then making the desired measure- 
ment on the plate by an instrument called a micro- 
meter. The sun has been photographed for the 
purpose of studying the solar spots, for many years, 
and the process has been perfected and used with 




great success. It is thought that by this method a 
much more precise measurement can be obtained 
than by the simple eye-observations. 

For the past two years preparations have been in 
progress for the coming transit. Our own Govern- 
ment has appropriated for this purpose one hun- 
dred and fifty thousand dollars. 

Eight stations are to be occupied, — three north- 
ern and five southern. The northern stations are 

longitude of the places determined, and every prep- 
aration thoroughly made. 

Other nations, especially England, Russia and 
Germany, have made extensive preparations for 
observing the transit, choosing different stations 
favorable to the purpose. 

Another transit of Venus will take place in 1882, 
which will be in some respects more favorable than 
this. It will be visible in the Atlantic States, and 

near Pekin, Yeddo, and a place in the neighbor- 
hood of the Caspian Sea. The southern stations 
are upon the island of Mauritius ; Kerguelan's 
Land; Hobart Town, southern part of Australia; 
some point in New Zealand ; and Chatham Islands, 
east of New Zealand. 

These stations are occupied several months before 
the transit, in order that the instruments may be 
well mounted and tested, and the latitude and 

more generally in the inhabited parts of the earth. 
The various instruments now used will be kept for 
that transit, and it will be observed with the same 
interest and thoroughness as the present one. 
After these the next will be in 2004 ; so if my At- 
lantic readers would see a transit of Venus at all, 
they must travel to a point where it can be seen in 
1874, or have their smoked glasses ready for the 
one that will occur December 6, 1882. 






(A True Story.) 

By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 

Not a very great while ago, Trotty was staying 
Worcester square. 

Everybody may not know that Worcester square 
in Boston ; but Trotty knew it. One reason was 
at he had been there before. 

i Worcester square is at the south end of Boston ; 
id Trotty knew that, too. Trotty knew a great 
eal. He knew that he had a very nice time when 
I went with his mother to visit at Cousin Ginevra's 
. Worcester square. Besides that, he knew that 
>mebody was going to be buried to-day in Boston. 
ie had heard them talking about it at the table, 
[e did n't believe there were a great many boys of 
is size who knew that. He meant. to ask those 
haps who played out in the square with watch- 
lan's rattles. He did n't exactly know who it 
'as ; but that was a minor point, and did n't mat- 
5r. He might have consulted his mother on it, 
owever ; but they had maple syrup on their buck- 
wheats, and omelette with their muffins, for break- 
ast, and he forgot it. 

He put on his cap and navy-blue coat after 
ireakfast, and told his mother he was going out to 
>lay in the square. His mother said, " Very well," 
md buttoned his coat up in the throat, for it was a 
ittle chilly, and he had a slight cold ; and she kissed 
lim good-by, and told him to be in in good season 
:o get washed and brushed before lunch. Trotty 
said, "Yes, urn," and hopped along, down the 
steps on one foot, into the square. 

There were n't any boys in the square just then, 
and Trotty played "menagerie" by himself for 
awhile, with the stone lions on the steps. He 
played " hand-organ," too, with a little cane he had 
for a birthday present. He beat time on the iron 
fence, and Cousin Ginevra threw him five cents 
and hired him — like many another organ-man — to 
go away. 

Pretty soon the boys began to come into the 
square ; all sorts of boys — pretty little boys from 
the neighboring houses, in seal-skin caps and nice 
boots ; queer little boys from over by the hospital, 
with ragged jackets and no coats ; pleasant little 
boys, quarrelsome little boys ; clean boys, dirty 
boys. Trotty had seldom seen so many kinds of 
boys together. They ran and whooped up and 
down the square. The boys in the seal-skin caps 
did n't run much with the other boys. Trotty 
was n't particular ; he liked them all ; he wished 

they had such funny boys at. home.' Ihere was 
one little boy with red hair there, who was very 
friendly with Trotty. He showed him his jack- 
knife, and the boy said he wished he had one like 
it. He showed him his cane, too ; the boy with 
red hair said it was a whacker. 

"Oh," said a seal-skin boy, "that's nothing! 
I 've got a cane twice as good ! " 

Trotty did n't like the seal-skin boy. 

" Say," said he, " did you know there was a big 
funeral down-town to-day?" For he thought he 
would show the seal-skin boy how much he knew. 

"Pooh!" said the seal-skin boy. "That's 
nothing either. I knew that a week ago. My 
father 's gone to see it. It 's an awful big funeral. 
All the women at our house are crying round." 

" I don't know but I shall go down myself," said 
the boy with red hair. 

" I don't care much about it," said the seal-skin 
boy, carelessly. " You get so used to processions 
and music in Boston." 

Procession ! Music ! Trotty's eyes grew very 
big. How grand it seemed to be a Boston boy in 
a seal-skin cap and not care about processions and 
music ! 

The boys had all begun to cluster around the 
seal-skin boy and the boy with red hair. Trotty 
pressed into the middle of the group. Cousin 
Ginevra, glancing out of the window, saw them all 
standing in a heap, talking earnestly. Trotty had 
his cap pushed back, and his cheeks were red ; he 
was talking too, very fast. Somebody called 
Cousin Ginevra away then, and she saw no more. 

It came a little before lunch-time ; but no Trotty. 
It came lunch-time itself; but no Trotty. Lunch 
was eaten and over, but Trotty had not come. His 
mother said she would go out and hunt him up ; 
he was probably in the square, or in Chester park, 
having a good time somewhere. But he must 
learn to be punctual ; she would bring him back, 
and he might go without his orange, for a punish- 

But she did not bring him back. He was not in 
the square. He was not in Chester park. All 
over Chester park, all over Chester square, through 
Worcester street, over on Harrison avenue, a little 
way down Washington street, a little way up 
Washington street, went Trotty's mother. But 
the only little boy she met was a little boy small 





enough to go out with a nurse and to wear a white 
fur coat. The region seemed to be emptied of 
little boys. She went back to Cousin Ginevra's, 
thinking he must have crossed her and gone 

''No," said Cousin Ginevra, carelessly; "but 
he '11 turn up ; boys always do in the city. He 
must learn to pick his way like the rest ; he 11 turn 
up in an hour or so." 

But Trotty had not turned up in an hour or 
so. It came dinner-time, and he had not turned 
up. It was past dinner-time, and he had not 
turned up. 

'■Cousin Ginevra," said Trotty's mother, put- 
ting on her bonnet, " I can't stand this any longer. 
I am going to the police-station to get something 
done about Trotty. Something must have hap- 
pened, or he would have been home to dinner. I 
can't wait another minute ! " 

" Well," said Cousin Ginevra, trying not to look 
anxious, " perhaps you 'd better. I think I will go 
out to Jamaica Plains myself, and inquire at Uncle 
Burden's. The child may have gone out there, for 
aught you know ; he has been often enough to 
know the way. One or the other of us will have 
got him safe before long, never fear ! " 

But Trotty's mother could no more help fearing 
than she could help hunting for Trotty. Such a 
little fellow ! Such a little, helpless, foolish fellow, 
to be wandering about that great city — the terrible 
city that he knew no more about than most little 
country boys who come in on visits once in awhile ! 
Oh ! what would become of him ? Where could 
he be ? 

"About so high ?" said the policeman. " I wish 
he 'd been a little higher or a little lower. There 's 
so many of 'em about so high ! Red hair, did you 
say, ma'am ? " 

" Chestnut hair ! Beautiful, bright " 

"Blue coat ?" interrupted the policeman, care- 
lessly, evidently not regarding the superfluous 
adjectives of fond mammas as at all to the point 
in the official processes of identification. 

" Yes, a little navy-blue coat, with brass buttons 
and a velvet collar." 

" I 'd have preferred some other color," said the 
policeman, discontentedly; "bottle-green, for in- 
stance, ma'am, would be a beautiful color for little 
boys. It 's a grave matter, if parents was only 
aware of it, this dressing young uns all alike, and 
turning 'em adrift on a nofficer's penetration. 
Now, I had six navy-blue coats lost on my beat 
this last fortnight." 

" And blue eyes." said Trotty's mother ; " great 
blue eyes, like " 

"Yes, yes," said the policeman,"! know, I 
know. Blue eyes. One pair 's like another pair. 

Blue eyes. Very well. We '11 do our best, ma'am 
but you need n't be surprised if it 's a matter o 
two or three days. We have so many blue eye 
and blue coats and reddish hair, about so high ! ' : 

Two or three days ! A matter of two or thre^ 
days ! What a dreadful matter ! 

Trotty's mother went home again ; went ou 
again ; went home again'; was in and out — couk 
not rest. 

It grew dark ; no Trotty. Cousin Ginevra carm 
home ; no Trotty. He had never been at Jamaic; 
Plains. Uncle Burden had not seen him. Unck 
Burden came, too. He, too, went in and out — tc 
the station and back again, up the square, dowi 
the square, into the park, over to the hospital 
down to the wharves, over to the Small-pox Hos 
pital. Perhaps Trotty had gone over to Pine Island 
to the Small-pox Hospital ! 

It grew darker. 

Into Springfield street, into Brookline street, 
down into Union-park street, back to the City Hos- 
pital, over by the great Jesuit Orphan Asylum, 
where all sorts of little boys peeped through the 
windows and shook their heads, for they had n't 
seen him ; over to the Medical School on the great 
empty lands, where there was such a chance to 
play if you felt like it, and where a gentleman stu- 
dent said he had n't seen such a boy, and a lady 
student said she thought she had, and then said 
No, she guessed it was an Irish boy, on the whole ; 
back again to the orphan asylum, and this time, 
as they were going by, a little orphan with a 
great many freckles hammered on the window at 

A sister in a white cap came to the window, too, 
and beckoned. Uncle Burden said they would 
stop, and they stopped. The sister threw up the 

" It is possible," she said, in rather a sweet voice, 
" that we have news of your child. Patrick, tell 
the gentlemen what you just told me." 

" I seen a chap with a blue coat and brass but- 
tings," said Patrick, hopefully. "I seen him go 
by with some other chaps. He had a cane." 

" That sounds like it," said Uncle Burden. 
" How big was he ? " 

" That 's well enough," said the policeman, " but 
when did you see him ? " 

" I seen him," said Patrick, thoughtfully, " about 
" He paused — reflected — seemed to be anx- 
iously trying to bring his important testimony 
down close to a matter of minutes or hours, at 
least. " I seen him — about — t'ree days and a-half 
ago ! " 

Down went the window. Away went the vision 
of the sweet-voiced sister and the freckled boy. 
On went Uncle Burden and the policeman, mu- 




ngly ; and down sank the he-art of Trotty's mother in a very muddy navy-blue coat ; with chestnut 

eeper than ever yet. hair — matted, heated, splashed ; with blue eyes, 

Supper-time; no Trotty. After supper; but no heavy and sodden ; without a cap, without a cane ; 

'rotty. Evening. Night. The dreadful night had and with a little face as white as death. He held 

ome — the dreadful day was gone — but still no a bunch of white flowers close to his side. 

Votty! "OTrot-ty!" 

It was nine o'clock. Bed-time an hour and a- There was a cry and a rush. Trotty stood it 

lalfagf ! What would Trotty do, with no "bed- pretty well. He trembled, however, for he was 


time," no bed to have a "time" about? Where 
would he lay the little, naughty, foolish, chestnut 
head to-night ? 

It was five minutes past nine. The door-bell 

"It is the policeman," said Trotty's mother. 
And she ran to the door herself. 

It was not the policeman. It was a little figure 

very weak ; they almost knocked him over with 
the rush and cry. 

" I have n't had any lunch," said the little figure, 
faintly. "Nor any dinner, either," after a pause. 
"Nor any supper, too!" gasped Trotty. "I 
have n't eatened a fing since my buckwheat break- 
fast ! " 

He thought he should cry; but he did n't. 




Now, his mother thought: " Trotty has done 
very wrong, but he ' shall not be questioned or 
punished till he has had food." 

So they took him down to supper, and nobody 
said anything. He ate and ate. They gave him 
milk, bread, crackers, cold turkey, figs, cookeys, a 
banana, and what was left of the squash pie. He 
ate them all. It seemed as if he would eat till 
to-morrow morning. He trembled while he ate, 
but he did not cry. 

By and by, his lips began to quiver. They asked 
him what was the matter. 

'• I can't get down vat piece of sponge-cake," 
moaned Trotty, " and I 've got to leave half my 
Albert biscuit ! " 

So they concluded that he had eaten enough to 
preserve life, and took him away upstairs and set 
him down in their midst, very silently — for because 
they were glad to see him, they could n't forget 
that he must have been naughty to run away — and 
the following dialogue took place : 

•' Now, Trotty, tell us where you 've been." 

"I've been to see the man laid down." 

" The man ?" 

" Yes ; the man folks are all crying about. The 
boys asked me to go and see him laid down." 

" Laid down ?" 

• ' Yes ; I went to see the man laid down. I 
heard his name, but I forget." 

" Oh, the child has been to the funeral ! Where 
did you get those flowers, Trotty ? " 

.Trotty held up the flowers — a bouquet of rose- 
buds, camelias and violets, very large, very rich, 
sorely faded. 

" Aint they pretty? I got 'em in the big build- 

" What big building ? " 

'• The big building opposite the common." 

" The State-House ! Have you been 'way down 
to the State-House ? " 

• " I went to the big buildin' opposite the common 
to see the man laid down. I 've got a sore froat, 

'■ Who went with you ? " 

"The boys." 

"What boys?" 

" The boy with red hair, and some other boys. 
There was a boy with a fur cap, but he did n't go 
far. He turned back. Me and the other boy, and 
the other boys, went alone." 

" Was there no big boy or grown person with 
you ? " 

' ' No, only me and the boys, and the boy with 
red hair." 

" Did you ride ?" 

"No, we walked. We walked to the buildin' 
and went in. They had music and a procession. 

It was bully. We all went in. Me and the red 
boy went in. I don't know 'bout the rest." 

" But that is impossible ! You could not have 
got into the State-House. They would not allow 

" Yes, I did. I went in. I tagged a p'liceman's 
coat-tails. I went right in afterward with his coat 
tails. I saw the inside. There was flowers all 
over it. I never saw so many flowers at home. It 
was bully ! They played ' Yankee Doodle,' too." 

" ' Yankee Doodle?' " 

" Yes, they did ; /know ' Yankee Doodle.'" 

" Where did you get your flowers ? " 

" I got 'em in the big buildin'. I picked 'em up. 
I 'm going to dry 'em to keep ; the other boys said 
they would. Then we came out." 

" What did you do next ? " 

" I went to see him laid down. Everybody did. 
I went with the procession. I tried to cry ; but I 
did n't very much." 

" But the procession went to Mt. Auburn Ceme- 
tery ! You 've got it wrong, somehow, Trotty. 
Mt. Auburn is five miles from here. You could 
not have gone very far." 

" Yes, I did. I went as far's anybody did. Me 
and the other boys went on ahead of the procession. 
The red boy said he guessed we 'd see it out. We 
went over a bridge. There was a grave- yard, too. 
They laid the man down in the grave-yard ; I mean 
the great man — him that they cried about." 

" Walked to Mt. Auburn ! It cannot be, Trotty ! 
And you could n't have got in when you got there. 
You could n't have seen ' the great man ' buried ! " 

" Yes, I did. I went over the bridge, and in at 
a gate. There was p'licemen there. I scud in 
under their arms. I don't think the other boys 
did. I thought I 'd like to see what they did with 
him. Then I came back. We all came back." 


"Oh, yes; I walked! 
walked to Boudoin square 

" How did you pay for your ticket ? " 

" I had five cents from Cousin Ginevra for play- 
ing the hand-organ to her with my cane. I lost 
my cane. I lost my knife, too. But I don't want 
to tell who took 'em. I should n't wonder if it was 
vat red boy. I 'd have been home before," con- 
cluded My Lord Trotty, carelessly, "but we made 
a mistake once. The procession went another 
way, and we went another way, and we had to turn 

" But, Trotty, do you know that you have done 
a very dangerous thing?" 

" Why, no ! " said Trotty. 

" And a very cruel thing ? " 

" A cruel fing ! " said Trotty. 



I got awful tired. I 
Therl I took a horse- 



'■' And a very, very naughty thing — so naughty 
it mamma must punish you harder than you 've 
;n punished for a long time ? " 
'" No," said Trotty, shaking his head stoutly, 
jugh the color came and went fast on his dirty 
:le face. "I didn't know I was naughty, only 
' ce. I did n't fink. When vey played ' Yankee 
jodle,' I thought I was a little naughty." 
" When they played ' Yankee Doodle ! ' " 
"Yes. It made me have a homesick feel- 
g in the back of my neck. I did n't know', but 
d ought to have stayed at home. Then I for- 
'J! 1 " But, Trotty, we have looked everywhere, and 

"rVerywhere, and had the police out looking " 

" The police ! " said Trotty. He looked quite 
leased ; he thought the seal-skin boys would think 
"lore of him, if the police had been called out on 
is account. 
"And there is one of them now ! " 
True enough, there was one ringing the door- 
ell at that moment, and Trotty heard him telling 
bem in the entry that he 'd got a boy ; he did n't 
:now if it would answer — boys were a good deal 
J .like, and this one 'd lost his coat, and vowed he 
ived up to Hunneman street ; it was n't the one, 
vas it ? He thought likely. He 'd take him 'long 
o Hunneman, and see if he told a straight story ; 
joys did n't generally. 

" No," said Trotty, marching out into the hall, 
:o look at the boy from Hunneman street ; " that 
is n't me ! I got home of my own account ! " 

" I 'd rather not see any more Boston boys to- 
night," said Trotty, feebly, as the door closed on 
the policeman and the poor little supposed-to-be 
Trotty. " I 'm tired of Boston boys. I 'd rather 
go to sleep." 

" But, Trotty," urged his mother, solemnly, " I 
want you to see what a cruel, naughty boy you 've 
been ! " 

Cruel ! Naughty ! These were ugly words. 
Trotty hung his head. 

" I thought you were lost," went on mamma. 
" I mourned, and hunted, and was frightened for 
my little boy. Why, Trotty, in all this great city, 
I did n't know where you were ! " 

" But / knew where I was ! " said Trotty, half- 
perplexed. Still, his head dropped lower and 
lower. He began to feel very badly. In all that 
great city, mourning for the loss of "the great 
man " that sad night, I hope nobody felt more 
sorrow than Trotty felt for a few minutes, while his 
head hung down. He ought to have felt about as 
unhappy as anybody could feel. Don't you think 
so, too ? 

" Mamma," said Trotty, after he had gone to 
bed (his mother had said she should not punish 
him at that time ; she would not strike a child 
worn by great physical exertion and loss of food), 
"mamma, who was his name? and I'd like to 
know how he came to have so much bigger funeral 
than anybody else ? " 

But before she had half begun to tell him, he 
was asleep. 

WW^ 4l ^ 

By Anna C. Brackett. 

Just where the children troop along 

At morn and noon together, 
The maple-tree grew green and strong 

Through all the summer weather. 

The little tree, so slim, so green 

Among the birches round it ; 
It only helped to make a screen, 

And no one e'er had found it. 

Now summer days begin to fade," 
Then said the maple, sighing ; 

And no one sees me in this shade ! 
What is the use of trying ? " 

And while one night she fretted thus. 
The air grew cold and colder, 

And there came a painter down the road, 
His colors on his shoulder. 

Jack Frost adown the winding way 
Came whistling, leaping, singing ; 

And as he ran about in play, 
His paints behind went swinging. 

Then how the spatters flew about, 
And streaks both red and yellow, 

Till all the leaves that leaned far out 
Glowed like the apples mellow. 

The maple watched the colors grow, 
Then cried, "Oh, stop! oh, listen! 

Before my leaves fall, paint me now 
Until in red I glisten." 

Jack Frost stands still. So small the tree, 

Hid safe among the birches, 
He stops uncertain ; then he climbs, 

And rock and bank he searches. 

' Oh, paint me, please ! " the maple cried, 
" Bright red and red all over, 
Till each one that may walk or ride 
My beauty shall discover." 




No sooner said than done it is ; 

The swift brush plies he singing 
Then swings away, upon his back 

His brushes lightly slinging. 

Adown the road the painter goes ; 

In silent joy she watches, 
Till the far-off hills betray his path 

In red and purple blotches. 

How splendid shines the maple-tree 

With green around and under ; 
The golden rods in all the place 

Bow down in reverent wonder. 

And how she scorns the lady birch 

That stands so close beside her ; 
Her head she tosses, waves her arms, 

And shakes her leaves out wider. 

O, silly little maple-tree ! 

Have done with ali your prinking ; 
Along the road the children see, 

Of fun and pleasure thinking. 

Oh, look ! halloa ! come see the show ! 

A tree just like a feather ! 
Let 's stick it in our hats, you know, 

And march down all together ! " 

They swarm the raspberry bushes through 

They tread the thistles under ; 
They gather round the trembling tree, 

Intent on scarlet plunder. 

O, dainty little tree ! She stands 

Like a beleaguered city ; 
They bend and break with feet and hands, 

The jubilant banditti ! 

Then off they march in scarlet line, 

And blaze through all the meadow ; -^gS3f 
But the birches droop their glistening leaves, 

And screen her with their shadow. 

Vol. II.- 2. 





By George Lowell Austin. 



ONCE upon a time, and the time dates back 
many hundreds of years, when mankind had 
nothing to eat save a few small vegetables, and 
when earth rejoiced in no wide fields of golden 
grain, a small party of Dyaks, who were then 
dwelling in the tangled forests of the island of 
Borneo, having grown discontented with their sor- 
rowful lot, united their wits, built boats of ample 
size, and put off to sea. 

The cause of so sudden a departure was certainly 
a reasonable one. Food, hitherto scarce and un- 
relishable, had become still more so ; and the 
waters which ran in the narrow channels had be- 
come stagnant. Sickness had sprung up among 
the people, and the women and children were 
perishing by hundreds. 

On a certain night, one of these Dyaks had seen 
a vision. Some strange visitor from an unknown 
land came to him in sleep, and whispered in his 
ear the following message : 

" Arise ! sad son of Bruni, and girt thyself with 
armor, for the day cometh when thou shouldst assert 
thy manhood. Arise ! and, with no delay, sum- 
mon thy brothers to thy side. Say to them that I, 
a messenger from the realms of Blessedness, have 
come to thee. - Get yourselves ready ; build boats 
large enough to transport the warriors ; go, and 
tempt fortune on the fair bosom of the sea." 

The man to whom the messenger had appeared 
arose from his bed in the early morning, and did 
as he was bidden. He assembled his brothers, 
his kinsmen and his people ; told to them what 
had happened, and bade them be industrious and 

The next day, the warriors, regardless of their 
wives and children, whom they were forced to leave 
behind, sailed away from the shore. Strange 
thoughts filled their minds as they embarked ; but 

not one of them dared to pause and question the 
purpose of so wondrous a venture. 

Onward they sailed, and onward. Land faded 
from sight behind them, and a wide expanse of 
ocean lay around them. One day, when the water 
was calm and as clear as crystal, and there was 
scarcely a flutter of breezes in the air, these valiant 
warriors were startled by hearing a loud roar in the 

They were unable to discern the slightest object 
either far or near. Whence, then, the awful noise 
which had so suddenly fallen upon the stillness ? 
Was it some roaring tornado, a peal of thunder, 
or the rapid rush of some hostile power descending 
from the high heavens? 

Though greatly amazed by this unexpected ter 
ror, the courage of the warriors did not fail them, 
nor allow them to turn back. They pursued their 
course ; and, after sailing many leagues further, 
caught sight of a whirlpool of vast size, the roaring 
of which had caused them so much affright. 

But this was not the only wonder which their 
eyes beheld. Just beyond the whirlpool, they dis 
cerned a large fruit-tree, the like of which was un 
known. The tree itself was firmly rooted in the 
sky, its branches hung downward, and its lowest 
leaves were bathed in the flashing ripples of the 

Now, the leader of this small and brave band of 
men was named Si Jura. He was a man of most 
exemplary conduct, of few words, and gifted with 
great wisdom and prudence. Hence he was always 
chosen to represent his people at every large con 
ference of the nation. 

Many fruits were growing on this wonderful tree 
and they were so beautiful in appearance, and so 
delightful in fragrance, that the Dyaks longed to 
possess them. They entreated Si Jura to climb 




up into the tree, in order to secure some of the 
fruit. He yielded to this request, and straight- 
way began the ascent. 

But Si Jura, being of a very inquisitive mind, 
was not satisfied to merely possess some of the 
fruit. He wished to explore still farther, and to 
learn for himself why and how the tree had grown 
in so singular a manner. Indeed, "he climbed so 
very high that his companions soon lost sight of 
him ; and they, thinking that, perhaps, he had 

Whilst he thus stood in silent admiration of the 
beautiful scenery which lay around him, and was 
contrasting it, in his own mind, with that of his 
own far-off land, he was suddenly accosted by a 
man of great and godlike stature. The name of 
this personage was Si Kira ; and in the most 
friendly way he addressed Si Jura, and invited him 
to his house. 

When the hour for dinner had come, both host 
and guest sat down to eat. The food chiefly con- 


been ushered into another world, and not caring to 
await the issue, turned their boats about, laden 
with fruit, and sailed rapidly away. 

Si Jura gazed down upon them from his lofty 
position, and sadly lamented his imprudent act. 
But, at last, he fell asleep from exhaustion. 

When he awoke, he again looked round about 
him. He expected never to return home, and, 
wise man that he was, he believed that the best 
thing for him to do, under the circumstances, would 
be to keep on climbing ! 

Higher and higher he ascended ; the sea van- 
ished from his sight, and the roots of the tree were 
soon reached. Wondrous to relate, these roots 
were imbedded in a new soil, and Si Jura had come 
to a new country, — that of the Pleiades ! 

sisted of a mess of white grains boiled soft, the 
savor of which was tempting. 

"You are my guest, friend," said Si Kira to Si 
Jura, " and it behooves me to offer to you my 
choicest food. Eat of this mess, I pray you." 

"Horrors!" replied Si Jura. "Not all the 
powers in this new and strange land could urge 
me to eat that mess of boiled maggots ! " 

"They are not maggots," said Si Kira, with 
much surprise, "but the choicest of boiled rice." 

The host then went on to explain the several 
processes of planting, weeding, reaping, pounding 
and boiling, which the grain must undergo before 
being ready to be eaten. 

In the middle of the narrative, the wife of Si Kira 
left the room in order to procure some water. 





During her absence, Si Jura leaned over from the 
table and peeped into a large jar which was stand- 
ing close by. Lo ! to his astonishment, he saw the 
house in which he used to live, and his aged 
parents, his wife and his children ! 

He saw all this, as if it were through a telescope ; 
and the sight brought intense sadness into his heart, 
for he very much feared that he should never again 
assemble with them. Si Jura was sorrowful indeed ; 
but he was speedily made glad by the promise of 
Si Kira to return him once more to earth. 

After the dinner was over, Si Kira gave his guest 
seed of three different kinds ; and, having repeated 
his former instructions, he conducted him quite 
long distance from the house. 

And then, by means of a long rope, Si Jura was 
again let down to earth, and very near to his own 
house. He lost no time before relating his wonder 
ful adventure ; taught his countrymen how to raise 
and gather in the rice ; and therefore, to this very 
day, is Si Jura regarded in the East as the patron 
of Dyak husbandry. 




By Penn Shirley. 

Tate Bedell was going to have a birthday the 
next day. That, in itself, was something for a little 
girl to be proud of, who only had had eight birth- 
days in her life, and could n't remember half of 
those. But more than that, she was to give a party 
in honor of the occasion, — her mother had said she 
might, — and besides, and beyond, and above all, 
it was to be a wedding part)*, and Tate's doll — the 
open-and-shut-eyed Luella Viola — was . to be the 
bride ! And though that small lady could n't, by 
any manner of means, be married before to-morrow, 
because her bridegroom was n't expected till the 
morning train, she was already dressed for the 
ceremony in white muslin, — with suck a trail ! — 
and lay on the spare chamber bed, under a pillow- 
sham, face down, for fear of crushing her long veil 
and wreath of orange blossoms. 

Tate herself was on her knees by the bureau, 
packing the bridal wardrobe into the japanned 
cake-box, leaving out the traveling-dress, of course, 
for Luella Viola to wear on her wedding journey. 

Was there ever an outfit like it ? Six complete 
suits; and by changing them about a little — put- 
ting the polonaise of one over the under-skirt of 
another, you know — you could make as many more ; 
six hats, all of the latest styles ; a handkerchief, 
bordered with real lace ; besides two entire sets of 
underclothing that had been sewed by Tate, even- 
stitch of them, without a thimble. 

" Got the notes ready, Tate ? " 

That was Minty Mozier's voice in the hall, and 
that was Minty's happy little self clumping upstairs 
after the wedding invitations. She was to carry 
them around. Tate couldn't, of course; for I for- 
got to say dear little Tate was lame, and not able 
to walk beyond the garden, even with her pretty 

rose-wood crutch. And it was very stupid of me 
not to mention this before, since but for her lame- 
ness, and her sweet, patient way of bearing it, I 
suppose her mamma would never have taken the 
pains to plan the doll's wedding of which I 'm tell- 
ing you. 

•'Dear me! No, Minty!" said Tate, moving 
along to give Minty kneeling-room by the trunk. 
" Toney has n't printed 'em yet ! " 

•'I say he's poison slow!" grumbled Minty, 
folding Luella Viola's balmoral into a neat bundle. 

"And he 's been teasing to take the invitations 
round himself. Do you care if I let him ? " 

" Pooh ! not the least bit," said Minty. 

" 'Cause, you see, he thinks I 'm real mean not 
to have boys at my party," said Tate, looking re- 
lieved ; " and I ought to make it up to him some- 

" As if you wanted to play with boys ! " said 
Minty, indignantly. 

" Oh, of course I don't want 'em ! " said Tate, 
decidedly; "but Toney says 'twont be any kind 
of a wedding 'thout I have 'em, 'cause at grown-up 
weddings they always invite men." 

" But then, men behave /" put in Minty. " Boys 
are horrid, — all but five or six, you know ! " 

" Well, I can't have 'em, anyway," said Tate, 
cheerfully. " Mamma says I 'm not strong enough. 
But I can ask nine girls to my birthday, 'cause I 
shall be nine years old — and going on ten, just 
think ! " 

" Yes," said Minty, very meekly. 

She was only seven and a-half, and it mortified 
her dreadfully. But she forgot this affliction before 
long, in helping Tate pack the trunk and buckle 
her mamma's shawl-strap about it ; and when she 

874- j 




fll : 

• ; rudged home at noon, she was just as happy as a 
: 'nrl only seven and a-half years old could possibly 

>e ; for was n't she going to a wedding-party in her 
lew pink sash and bronze boots ? And was n't 
Toney coming that very afternoon to leave her a 
printed invitation ? To be sure he was ! She knew 
3 f:hat as well as if Tate had said it ! 

Indeed, as it happened, Toney was rushing into 
Tate's house at precisely this minute with the notes 
le had just struck off on his little printing-press. 
They were the daintiest affairs in the world, printed 
}n pink satin paper, and reading this way: 

Miss Tate Bedell 
Requests the pleasure of your presence at the Marriage of her Doll, 
. Luella Viola Bedell, 


Clarence Osborne, 

On Thursday, September 4th, 1873, at Three o'Clock. 

P. S. — Please bring all your dolls. 

Toney had slightly objected to the postscript, but 
he finally added it to satisfy Tate. She had now- 
only to double these sheets across the centre, and 

;they filled their envelopes exactly : such pretty en- 
velopes, with the monogram " B. O." embossed on 
them. That stood for Bedell and Osborne, of 

Toney walked up and down the gravel-path, 

^whistling, while Tate directed the envelopes to her 
nine little friends ; and just before he lost his 
patience, she brought them out to him, in a neat 
willow basket, with a white satin bow perched on 
the top, to give it a bridal air. And then he car- 

'ried round the notes, delivering a funny speech 
with each one. 

But, alas ! for poor Minty ! There was none for 
her ! From the back-door step, where she was 

' amusing the bald-headed baby with tin muffin- 

' rings, she saw Toney call at the door opposite and 
hand Jenny Gilson a note, and then walk straight 

' on — never so much as looking at her house ! No 
wonder Minty nearly cried her eyes out, and went 

1 to bed that night thinking this was a dreadful 

• world for a little girl only seven and a-half years old 
I to live in ! 

. Papa Bedell came next day in the early train, 
right from New York, and brought with him 
Clarence Osborne, Luella Viola's bridegroom, a 
handsome young gentleman in a black broadcloth 
suit, with white gloves and waistcoat, and a watch 
no bigger than a buttercup. Tate took him up to 
the front chamber, to wait till it was time to hand 
Luella Viola down to the parlor ; and there he had 
been standing in a corner, handkerchief in hand, 
fully five hours, for now it was quarter of three, 
and, as Tate said, "almost late enough for the 
wedding to begin." 

She had got together all the old dolls she could 

find about the house, and had just ranged them on 
the sofa, to represent Luella Viola's poor relatives 
come to see her married, when Jenny Gilson rushed 
in quite out of breath. 

" O, Tate!" cried she; "didn't you mean to 
ask little Minty Mozier ? She feels awfully, because 
you have n't sent her an invitation ! " 

" Why, Jenny Gilson ! I did send her one — I 
certain did J" cried Tate, hopping about on her 
crutch in great excitement. " Toney must have 
lost it. O dear ! what shall I do ? " 

" I '11 carry her one, and tell her about it, sha'n't 
I ? " said Jenny, eagerly. " I 'most knew it was a 

"But they're all gone. Toney only printed 
nine ! " said Tate, fairly crying. 

"I'd write her one, right off quick, before the 
rest come," cried Jenny, who was a born peace- 

" But folks don't write wedding cards on just 
bare paper," sobbed Tate, dragging her writing- 
desk from beneath the what-not ; " and I 'm afraid 
Minty wont like it ! " 

"There's her invitation, this minute, I do be- 
lieve ! " shouted Jenny, joyfully, as Tate opened 
the desk. And there, to be sure, it was, half- 
hidden by a package of envelopes ; but so plainly 
directed to Minty Mozier, that the postmaster him- 
self might have read it. 

Jenny darted off with it, and at the gate met the 
rest of the wedding guests, all dressed in white, 
who, of course, must know the whole story. 

" Let's go with Jenny, and take Tate along!" 
they cried. And, in a twinkling, the two largest 
girls had joined hands and made a sedan-chair for 
Tate, and the entire party was hurrying on after 

It was amazing how Minty could have dressed 
herself so quickly ! I think her mother must have 
helped her, for when the sedan-chair arrived at Mr. 
Mozier's door, she was all ready, even to her coral 
beads. Jenny and Lottie Prince would make a 
chair for her too ; and the little white procession, 
on its way back, with Minty and Tate riding at its 
head, made such a gay appearance, that Bobby 
Wright got out his drum in great haste, and trotted 
behind it as fast as his chubby legs would carry 
him, having a misty notion that the Fourth of July 
had come again. 

But this was small excitement beside the wedding 
which followed. Jenny Gilson played minister, in a 
water-proof cloak and white handkerchief necktie ; 
and Tate had to make the responses for the bride 
and bridegroom, as Luella Viola could only say 
"papa" and "mamma," which would not have 
done at all on this occasion, and Clarence Osborne 
was too much stuffed to speak a word. 




After the ceremony, Minty led each doll up in 
turn to kiss the bride and offer congratulations ; 
and then Tate passed around a little waiter heaped 
with bride's cake, and slices of wedding-cake folded 
in white paper. 

And all the while the wedding presents were 
lying in state on the chess-table. There were 
spoons, and knives and forks, and napkin-rings, 
and salvers, and card-receivers, and I can't begin 
to tell you how many other things, cut out of silver 
paper. The bride herself could n't stay to examine 

them. She and her husband were whisked off on 
their wedding tour in a baby-carriage. Tate threw 
an old slipper after them for good luck, and then 
turned to kiss Minty for the sixth time. 

" Oh, Minty, my wedding would have been spoilt 
if you had n't come ! " 

"I've had the splendidest time!" said Minty, 
swinging Jenny Gilson's hand; ''and you made 
me, Jenny ! " 

And of them all, I think Jenny was the happiest 
girl at Tate's doll's wedding. 


By Charles Barnard. 

I WAS waiting for the train to take me to the city. 
Very soon the engine appeared, far away up the 
line, and looking like a black speck in the distance. 
It grew bigger and bigger and came faster and 
faster toward us, so that I began to think it was 
an express train and did n't mean to stop. Just 
then the engineer began to blow off steam, and 
with a loud roar the engine swept past and the 
train came to a sudden stop. 

" What lively brakemen they must have on this 
road ! " 

" Oh, no ! We don't use brakemen. We have 
the, vacuum-brake," said the man to whom I spoke. 
" There it is under the car." 

I looked under one of the cars, and there I saw 
a round box, made of iron and rubber, and having 
creases on the sides, just like a bellows when it is 
shut up. As I looked at it, it seemed to swell 
out longer and longer, and the creases flattened 
out smooth, just like the leaves of an accordion 
when it is stretched out to its full length. There 
was an iron rod fastened to the end of the rubber 
box, and as the box spread open, the rod moved 
backward. This rod, I could see, was fastened to 
the chain that moved the brakes on the car wheels. 

Just then the conductor cried, "All aboard!" 
and I was obliged to get in and take a seat. I 
thought no more of the vacuum-brake till we 
came to the next station, when I heard the roar- 
ing sound of the steam blowing off on the engine, 
and felt the brakes holding the train back. We 
slid softly into the station, and the cars came to a 
stop without any jar, and with none of that awk- 
ward start and jerk that we feel when the brake- 
men do not stop all the cars at once. At the next 

station the same thing happened again. Certainly, 
the vacuum-brake was a very fine thing. 

Let us see just how this contrivance works. Un- 
der each car is a bellows. These are joined together 
by pipes and rubber hose that stretch from car to 
car, and, finally, come up through the floor of the 
engine-cab. When the air is sucked out of the 
bellows, they shut up tight, and so pull the brake- 
chains. Most of you boys and girls understand 
this. You have heard about a vacuum in the 
philosophy class, and have seen the experiments 
with the air-pump in school. A rubber ball cut in 
halves is a capital thing to show what a vacuum 
is. Press one of the pieces on a board or the table, 
so as to squeeze all the air out, and see how it will 
stick to the table. All around us is the air in which 
we live and move. When it is pushed or sucked 
out of any place, it presses on the surface of what- 
ever shuts it out, and thus becomes an actual 
weight upon it. Under our ball we have a vacuum. 
In the vacuum-brake they use this pressure of the 
air to pull the brake-chains, and so save the trouble 
of having a man on each car to turn the brake- 
wheels every time the train is to stop. In the 
philosophy class you have seen the teacher use an 
air-pump to obtain a vacuum ; but I did not see 
how they could have an air-pump here to be worked 
by the engine. It would take up room and be in 
the way. Besides, our engine was coming into the 
station and about to stop, and when it stopped the 
pump must stop too, and then the brakes would 
not work. 

Perhaps it would be a good idea to go forward 
and stand on the platform of the first car, where 
I could look into the engineer's cab. The wind 

i :>74-] 


J« .'lew pretty strong, and the cinders flew about in a 
itj ,hower; but I could look right into the engine, 
-nd, really, I could n't see anything that looked 
like an air-pump. Just then a cloud of steam burst 
iut of a small pipe on the top of the cab, and, 
vith a deafening roar, the engine rolled into an- 
)ther station and came to a stop. As the cinders 
vere pretty lively, I went back into the car and 
ooked out through the glass door to see the train 
; start 

Just then the train moved on, and the conductor 
:ame round for the tickets. As I gave him mine, 
[ said : 

" You use the vacuum-brake ? " 

" Yes, sir. It 's a fine thing. It stops the cars 
quickly and without any bad jerks or strains." 

" How do you obtain the vacuum ? " 

" Oh ! The engineer does that." 

"Well, how?" 

"Oh! it's some kind of exhaust. Don't you 
hear the exhaust when she stops ? " 

" Then, it is not a pump ? " 

"Oh, no; it's an exhaust, — the exhaust from 
the engine." 

" Not the waste steam from the engine ? I 
thought that went up the smoke-stack." 

" Well, no — you see — it's exhaust steam. The 
engineer — he — the fact is, I have n't looked into it. 
They get a vacuum with the exhaust, — I heard the 
engineer say so, — and that 's all I know about it. " 

The next station was the end of the route ; so 
I went forward and climbed up into the engine, 
where the engineer sat on his high seat reading 
the morning paper. 

Now, railway engineers are generally pleasant 
people to meet. A trifle greasy and grimy, per- 
haps, but good-natured and sensible. They know 
everything about. cars and engines, and are always 
ready to talk about their great machines, for they 
love their iron horses, and are always glad to show 
them off and to tell how they work. 

As soon as I entered the cab, the engineer laid 
down his paper and very politely asked me what he 
could do for me. 

" Tell me about the vacuum-brake, sir. Do you 
use a pump to obtain the vacuum ? " 

" Oh, no ! We get it by a blast of steam from 

the boiler. Those two brass pipes on each side of 
the boiler lead back under the tender and under 
the cars to the rubber boxes you see under each 
car. This iron pipe, that is joined to the brass pipe 
near the top of the boiler, comes from the boiler. 
When I turn this crank, the steam rushes through 
it and escapes out of the top of the cab." 

" Is that the sound I heard when the train 
stopped? " 

•" Yes, sir. It sounds just like an exhaust-pipe, 
or the safety-valve. Well, as I was saying, it 
rushes out into the open air, and as it goes it sucks 
the air out of the brass pipes, and so makes a 
vacuum. You see it cannot get down the brass 
pipe, because it is full of air and closed up tight. 
It can get out through the top, and away it goes, 
and the air goes with it, and we get a first-rate 
vacuum in a jiffy. I tell you, sir, it 's a neat thing, 
and works to a charm. I can stop any train they 
please to put behind my engine with just a turn of 
my finger." 

" Then, when you have stopped the train, how 
do you let the air in again ? " 

" I shut off the steam and open this valve, and 
the air rushes down the pipe where the steam went 
out, and the boxes under the cars swell up again, 
just like a pair of bellows when the wind comes in 
again. Why, sir, it 's just like a boy blowing over 
a key or a little vial. He blows across the mouth 
of the vial, and the water or dust or the air in it 
spurts up in his face. His breath rushing past the 
mouth, sucks the air out of the vial and makes a 
vacuum in it. If it is full of water, he can see just 
how it works, for the water will fly up in his face, 
just as the air flies out of these pipes when the 
steam blows past the end. Any boy can fill a key 
with water and see just how it works." 

This was so very simple, that I felt almost 
ashamed to think that I had not guessed just how 
it was as soon as I heard the roar of the steam 
whenever the train stopped. 

The engineer then explained that the two brass 
pipes were simply to prevent accident. If one 
broke down he could use the other. I told the 
engineer what the conductor had said. 

He laughed and said, "Law, sir, some folks 
would go round the world and never see a thing." 




By Nathaniel Childs. 

It was n't such a long time ago ; and none of 
the half-dozen young mischief-makers have quite 
journeyed into the land of soberness or gained their 
title to respect and reverence by grey beards or 
bald heads. Every boy or girl who may read this 
true story, will know something about the scene of 
it. Why, it used to stare at me from my geog- 
raphy ; used to come up to plague me out of my 
history ; the teachers used to talk about it almost 
every day, and we scholars used to sing about it 
from our small green-covered singing-books. 

The picture which used to stare at me always 
seemed like a mean sort of family portrait ; for I 
could go to the scene itself, and my young eyes 
were practiced enough to see how bad the picture 
was. And yet it looked enough like Bunker Hill 
Monument to make me feel a little proud when I 
thought, " I live right side of it ; and there are lots 
of fellows and girls who've never seen it at all." 
The geography used to read, " Charlestown is 
situated on a peninsula, immediately north of Bos- 
ton, and is the seat of the Navy Yard and the cele- 
brated Bunker Hill Monument,'' — or something 
like that, as well as I can remember it ; for I have 
not seen that old geography for over ten years. 
The history told us about the battle which had 
been fought near by, and we boys used to go and 
lie down on the grass behind the breast-works and 
shoot imaginary red-coats by the million with our 
bows and arrows, and then hunt for the lost arrows. 
Often we would sit down on the stone which bore 
the inscription, ''Here fell Warren, &c," and 
complacently eat apples, unmindful of the sacred- 
ness of the spot. 

My story is about Bunker Hill Monument, and a 
half-dozen boys who went to school near by the 
tall granite shaft — boys who played ball in the 
streets which run alongside the green grounds upon 
which the shaft stands, or played "three holes" 
with marbles, or trundled hoops about the brown 
paths. Somehow, at recess one day, it came out 
that one of the boys had a family ticket which al- 
lowed him to climb up as often as he wished to the 
four' windows, which seemed to open a whole world 
to our youthful minds, as we gazed out to sea, or 
toward hills and over cities. He was easily king 
among us then ; for all the rest must pay to go up, 
and even ''half-price for children" was a heavy 
draw upon our pocket-money. Could n't we be all 
cousins of his and go up on his ticket ? He was 
good-natured in his kingship, and took three or 

four of us up one day, and then increased the num- 
ber on succeeding days, until it became a regular 
proceeding for some ten of us boys to trot up to the 
top of the monument each pleasant recess. Sight- 
seeing grew monotonous, and we must do some- 
thing to hold our interest in going up. One day I 
dropped my hat out, and it sailed away so grace- 
fully that other hats, almost of their own accord, 
followed mine and found a quiet rest in the grass 
below, until we could run down the stone stairs and 
regain our head-gear. After hats, in a few days, 
went jackets, and to see them spreading out to the 
breeze was lovely, we thought. Possibly some 
one of us would have jumped out at last, if a sub- 
stitute had not suggested itself to our brilliantly- 
mischievous minds. 

We were one whole week at work, and doubtless 
the one-armed custodian (I recollect I used to 
wonder if he had lost his arm in the Revolutionary 


war; he certainly looked old enough to me to have 
been a part of those stirring times) missed our reg- 
ular tramp through his little office and up the 
stairs. Then it was ready. It was a wonderfully- 
constructed effigy. Tom had furnished trousers; 
Joe had supplied an old coat ; Bill had brought a 




lat ; Jack gave the straw to stuff out the 
reature, and I had promised a pair of 
quare-toed boots and the back-yard in 
finch the man was to be constructed. 
Ne were pledged by some fearful pledge, 
uch as boys manufacture on special occa- 
sions, not to reveal any of our proceed- 
ngs, and I was held answerable for two 
.mall sisters who peered wonderingly out 
Jrom the kitchen windows as we labored. 
Che man was made, and oh ! he was a 
earful sight to behold. I could n't go to 
ileep from thinking of him down there in 
he yard, and almost believed he would 
,,»me to life and would run and tell the 
f ' monument man " what we were going 
:o do. 

Next day was bright and pleasant. Be- 
fore school we whispered it about that 
[here would be fun at recess, and few 
lessons were well learned that day. Ours 
was a boys' and girls' school, and the girls 
were given the upper hall, which looked 
out in the monument grounds, for a play- 
room at recess. When the bell struck 
which released us for a half-hour, the girls 
all ran to the hall windows, and the boys 
all hurried to the monument grounds. 
The chief conspirators were soon dragging 
the effigy up the green slope, and in less 
time than it takes to tell it, the body was 
over the wire fence which bounded the 
monument's base. We did not wait to go 
through the office this time, but with a 
rush, were twenty steps up before the one- 
armed man could halloo to us to come 
back. We could n't think of coming back 
just then, and, with shouts and laughter, 
hastened to carry the effigy to the top of 
the monument. Each moment we thought 
we heard the old man calling to us and 
panting up behind us. There was no time 
to lose, and in a jiffy after we reached the "Sr.i 
top, out went a man, as it seemed, from 
the little square window. Boys shouted 
and girls shuddered. The boys knew what 
was sailing through the air ; but the girls really 
thought one of us had fallen out. How grandly 
our man went down ! What a magnificent crash he 
made as he struck the gravel of a walk below and 
spread out his finely-shaped limbs in the most life- 
like or lifeless manner. Then we rushed down 
again, and gave him a decent burial in a neighbor- 
ing field. Recess being over, we went into school 
to receive five black marks each for disorderly con- 



duct, our claim that we were only experimenting 
on the law of gravity, though upsetting the mas- 
ter's gravity, not doing much toward alleviating 
our punishment. One girl had fainted away during 
the scene. She thought it was Joe, she said, and 
she liked Joe ever so much. 

She married Joe a year or two ago, and I hap- 
pened to meet him last week, which reminded me 
of this freak of a half-dozen young rascals. 






(Drawn by Master Frederick W. Chapman.) 


By N. S. Dodge. 

TRADITIONS, legends and superstitions, closely 
linked as they often are, remain very distinct in 
themselves and in their influence. A tradition 
may be true ; a legend is not only untrue, but im- 
probable ; and a superstition is a foolish belief in 
the supernatural and impossible. The first two are 
apt to be full of interest and charm ; the last is 
always a blight, wherever it may settle. The world 
abounds in wild and marvelous stories that are 
believed in by the uneducated. For instance, in 
almost every country there are legends about long- 
sleepers. According to them, Charlemagne sleeps 
in Hess, seated on his throne, with crown on head 

and sword in hand, waiting till Antichrist shall 
come ; the seven youths of Ephesus, who refused to- 
bow down to the idol of the Emperor Decius, sleep 
on, their faces fresh as roses, till the resurrection- 
day ; Epimenides slept fifty-seven years ; a Christian 
priest sleeps in St. Sophia till the Turk shall be 
cast out ; three Bohemian miners sleep in the 
heart of the Kuttenburg ; and Rip Van Winkle 
slept twenty years in Kaatskills. In the great hills 
of Thuringia still sleep Frederic Barbarossa and 
his six knights. A shepherd once penetrated into 
"a long winding cave in the heart of the mountain, 
and there found the seven all asleep, the emperor's 



: / 

■d beard having grown through the marble table. 

he noise of footsteps awakened him, and he 

" Do the ravens still fly over the mountains ? " 

" Yes," replied the shepherd ; " they do." 

"Then we must sleep another hundred years," 
nswered the monarch ; and turned again to rest. 

In Switzerland three William Tells sleep in a 
ave. A brave boy once crept in. 

" What o'clock is it ?" asked the third Tell. 

" Noon," replied the lad. 

" O dear ! the time has not yet come," said Tell ; 
nd lay down again. 

There are many superstitions about the man in 
he moon, and almost every country in the world 
tas a story about him. In New England the 
turses tell the children that this man was found by 
Moses gathering sticks on a Sabbath, and that, for 
jeing so wicked, he was doomed to reside in the 
noon till the last day. 

" If you don't believe it," they say, " look in the 
Bible. It is all told in the fifteenth chapter of 

The Germans have the tale this way. Ages ago 
there went one Sunday morning an old man into 
the forest to cut wood. When he had made a 
bundle he slung it on his staff, cast it over his 
shoulder, and started for home. On his way he 
met a minister, all in his bands and robes, who 
asked him : 

" Don't you know, my friend, that it is Sunday 
on earth, when all must rest from their labors ? " 

" Sunday on earth, or Monday in heaven, it is all 
one to me ! " laughed the woodman. 

"Then bear your burden forever," said the 
priest; "and as you value not Sunday on earth, 
you shall have Monday in heaven till the great 

Thereupon the speaker vanished, and the man 
was caught up, with cane and fagots, into the 
moon, where you can see him any clear night. 

In Norway they think they see both a man and 
woman, and the story goes, that the former threw 
brambles at people going to church, and the latter 
made butter on Sunday. In the clear, cold nights 
of winter they will point out the man carrying 
his bundle of thorns, and the woman her butter- 

It is so with the Wandering Jew. There is no 
Christian country that has not this legend, and yet 
no two are alike. The great artist, Gustave Dore, 
represents him as standing at the door of his shop 
refusing to let the Savior rest, and laughing at the 
words, "Walk TILL I RETURN!" In another 
picture, he is a very old man, worn with toil, tired 
of travel, bent under the curse, but still trudging 
on. In a third, the last trump having sounded and 

all the dead awakening, while every one else is 
shaking with fear, the weary man sits down, casts 
off his sandals, and rejoices to rest. 

About three hundred years ago, Dr. Paul von 
Eitzen saw an old man, whose hair hung over his 
shoulders, standing barefoot while the service in 
church proceeded, and bowing reverently at every 
mention of the name of Jesus. The doctor sought 
him out and inquired who he was. 

" A native of Jerusalem," he replied, " by name 
Ahasuerus, and a shoemaker by trade. I SAW 
Christ on his cross." 

"What!" exclaimed the good doctor, starting 
back in alarm. 

"Yes," continued the Jew, ''/saw Clirist on 
his cross. As he was led by my door, where I was 
standing with my little boy, the Lord Jesus wanted 
to rest, but I would not permit it. ' Go on. King 
of the Jews,' I said. He gave me one sorrowful 
look, and said, 'Go YOU ALSO,' and from that 
hour, fifteen hundred years ago, I have walked the 

Dr. Eitzen said that the Jew never received alms, 
never laughed, appeared penitent, read God's word, 
spoke all languages, and convinced many of the 
truth of what he said. No doubt; for in those 
days people were credulous, and this most thrilling 
of all myths, believed to be countenanced in the 
28th verse of Matthew xvi., took strong hold of 
the imagination. The man, beyond doubt, was an 
arrant impostor, and yet he left an impress in Ger- 
many that has never been effaced. In the powers of 
figures he took great pleasure, and many interest- 
ing mathematical problems which he propounded 
are remembered. For instance, the property of 
the number 9, is said to have been first pointed 
out by the Wandering Jew; i.e., that when 9 is 
multiplied by 2, by 3, by 4, &c, the digits cotn- 
posing the product, when added together, give 9^ 
Thus : 

2 X 9=18 and I + 8 = 9 

3 X 9 = 2 7 " 2 + 7=9 

4 X 9= 36 " 3 + 6 = 9 
5X 9 = 45 " 4 + 5 = 9 

6 x 9 = 54 " 5 + 4=9 

7 X 9 = 63 - 6 + 3 = 9 
8x 9= 72 " 7 + 2 = 9 
9X 9 = Si " 8+1=9 
9 X 10 = 90 " 9 + 0=9 

It will be noticed that 9X11= 99, and that the 
sum of these digits is 18, but the sum of this sum, 
1 + 8=9. 

9X12 = 10S and 1+0 + 8=9 
9 X 13 = 117 " 1 + 1 + 7 = 9 
9 X H = I2 6 " 1 + 2 + 6 = 9 

and so on to any extent. The following, among 





many other magical squares, is attributed to the 
Wandering Jew: 

2 7 6 

9 5 i 
4 3 8 

These nine figures added horizontally, perpendicu- 
larly, or diagonally, make 15. 

These magical squares were used as amulets. 
Written on small pieces of parchment, embroidered 
on fine linen, graven over the entrance to a house, 
inscribed on the fly-leaf of a book, wrought into 
clothing, or stamped upon goods offered for sale, 
these magical squares were held during the middle 
ages to heal in sickness or to preserve in contagion. 
Albert Diirer, the great artist of his age, was not 
free from the superstition. Over the doorway of 
his house, where, under the bell, he had carved a 
most perfect figure of Melancholy, was inscribed 
the following magical square as a preservative 
against evils and mischief: 

















These numbers, from one to sixteen, if added up 
and down, or from end to end, or corner-wise, 

amount to thirty-four. Very ingenious, surely; 
but it is strange how wise and good men could have 
believed that mere combinations of figures, however 
curious, would prevent a house from taking fire, or 
doors from being broken open by robbers, or dis- 
eases from entering one's home. 

All superstitions are foolish. To fasten a horse- 
shoe near the door to procure good-luck, or to 
throw salt over the shoulder to prevent ill ; to be 
glad to have first seen a new moon over the right ; 
or sad to be sitting thirteen at table ; to turn 
twice around before setting out a second time, or to 
frame a mental wish after speaking simultaneously 
the same words with another, are practices un- 
worthy of our day, making children of grown people 
and fools of boys and girls. To believe that the gift 
of a crooked sixpence betokens good fortune, or of 
a knife, bad; that killing a swallow will make cows 
give bloody milk, or that crossing your stockings 
before going to bed insures happy dreams ; that 
beginning a work on Friday is unlucky, or a thrice- 
repeated dream a prediction, are each and all as 
silly as to lay food before an idol of wood or to bury 
bow and arrows with a dead Indian warrior. 

Religion is one thing ; superstition another. 
The two are opposite. The former pays honor to 
God ; the latter does homage to Ignorance. 




By J. R. 

" C-A-P-R-l-C-I-O-U-S-N-E-S-S ! That's a pretty 
word to put in a story-book for a little fellow like 
me! I wonder what it means, anyhow ! " 

Tommy always scolds a little when a hard word 
trips him up. He does n't like hard words. How 
can he find out what they mean, he says ; and if 
he skips them, he never knows how much of the 
story he has missed. Besides, there 's no use in 
skipping them, for they are sure to keep turning 
up ; and a fellow might as well learn them first as 
last. Of course, it 's a trouble to be asking some 
one, "What's this?" and " What 's that?" every 
little while, especially when everybody is busy read- 
ing or working; and it is n't easy for a little fellow 
to be running to the dictionary every time he 
stumbles over a long word ; still anything is better 
than skipping. 

I can't help watching him with the corner of my 

eye, as he stands with his elbows on the window- 
sill, resting his chubby cheek on his hand. 

Presently a smile begins to flicker round Tom- 
my's mouth ; his eyes dance a little, and, the ghost 
of a laugh ripples over his face, without making a 
bit of noise. He would n't laugh that way if we 
were in the woods ! 

"What is it?" I ask. 

"Little Billy." 

" What 's happened to Billy ? " 

"Nothing, only he's trying to jump outside of 
himself, while his mother eats the posters off the 
wall, in spite of that boy with a stick. He 's such 
a funny rascal ! Do all goats act that way ? " 

" What way, Tommy? " 

" Why, as Billy does. He 's so comical ! He '11 
be trotting along as sober as an old sheep and 
whisk ! he '11 go off at one side, rearing and bunt- 



2 9 


lg and flinging out his heels as though he 'd swal- 
nved a fire-cracker. You never can tell when he 's 
oing to cut up his monkey shines." 
" That 's a characteristic of goats, I believe." 
" Just look at him now ! Did you ever see any- 
aing so funny? It always makes me laugh to 
ee him frisk about and flirt that ridiculous stump 


of a tail he has. It looks just as though it had 
been broken off and stuck on again the wrong way. 
There 's a caper for you ! Just look at him." 

" Did you ever hear of the Romans, Tommy ? " 

" Romulus and Remus and Julius Caesar, and 
all those old fellows that lived a long time ago ? 
Of course I have." 

" Don't you know that if Julius Csesar had said, 
'There 's a caper,' he 'd have meant simply, 
' There 's a goat ? ' " 

" Would he ? Why ? Caper does n't mean goat, 
does it ? " 

"Not now, but it used to." 

" And is that the reason why we call funny 
things that a fellow does when he feels good and 
does n't know what to do, capers ? " 

" Precisely. To caper, is to do odd things with- 
out any particular purpose, just as goats do." 

" I never knew that words came about in that 
way. " 

"They do, very often. Don't you know how 
we call a greedy boy a pig, or one that goes bawl- 
ing around for nothing a little calf? " 

" Oh yes ! And we call a fellow that is always 
bossing around, a bully ? " 

" Certainly. Even the dictionary-makers have 
to admit it." 

"Dictionary-makers! Do dictionaries tell any- 
thing about where our words come from ? " 

" Certainly ; and capital stories you can make of 
them, too. Fetch me that big one there, on the 
lower shelf. Can you lift it ? " 

" Humph ! Pity if I can't lift 
a book as big as that ! " 

" Here we are ! Thank you. 
Now, let 's look at caper. Here 
it is : 

" ' Caper. — (L. Caper, a 
goat. ) ' 

" That ' L ' stands for Latin, 
the language the Romans used 
to talk. You '11 hear enough 
about that before you are done 
going to school ! 

•" The meaning of caper, you 
see, is, ' a skipping, leaping or 
jumping in frolicsome mood, 
after the manner of a goat.' and 
To Caper, means, ' to dance, 
skip or leap in a frolicsome 
manner.' " 

" Dolly says, ' Quit your ca- 
pering/ ' sometimes when I'm 
having a little fun, and make too much noise." 

"And I've heard you say the same to Billy, 
when you wanted to lead him and he wanted to 
play. You know what it means. 

" Here 's another word of the same sort, which 
we likewise owe to Master Bill)' : 

" 'Caprice. — A sudden start of the mind; a 
whim; a freak ; a fancy.' 

" You've seen such actions, I dare say, in some 
of your playmates. You never can depend on 
them. One moment they want to play ball ; be- 
fore you can begin to play, they have changed their 
minds, and want to play horse, or tag, or some- 
thing else. One moment they are very friendly, 
and the next they 're off in a huff, without any 
reason for it. Such people are called capricious. 
Here 's the word, a little further along." 

" Why, that 's the very word I could n't under- 
stand in my book ! " 
"Was it? Look." 

"Oh, no! It's capriciousness. I know what 
that means now. But who 'd have thought it had 
anything to do with a Billy-goat ? " 

" That 's a wonderful book, that dictionary. 
It '11 pay you to study it." 



[November fe 

By S. G. W. Benjamin. 

At a fort in Florida, during the Seminole war, a 
man named Richard Blount lay wounded and 
dying. A keen observer might have discerned in 
the emaciated features, well covered by an iron- 
grey, untrimmed beard, traces of refinement — 
almost effaced, it is true, by the unmistakable 
marks of a turbulent, and perhaps criminal, career. 

The surgeon in charge of the stockade seemed 
a man of warm heart and tender sympathies, which 
had not been blunted by familiarity with suffering. 
He carefully tended the dying soldier, doing all in 
his power, by words and actions, to soothe his last 
hours. This kindness was not without results. 
Impressed by attentions to which he had long 
been unaccustomed, Richard Blount — taciturn and 
reserved by habit, if not by nature — grew more 
communicative, and. at the last, made certain rev- 
elations concerning transactions of which no other 
living man had any knowledge. 

One afternoon, as the sun was setting red and 
broad in a burning haze behind the motionless 
palmettoes, and the mocking-bird was pouring 
forth his wealth of music by the still bayous where 
the alligator basked unmolested. Richard, who was 
feeling stronger than usual, after a period of silence 
and mental struggle with himself, said : 

•' Doctor, you 've been mighty good to me. You 
are the first person who has spoken a kind word to 
me for many years. I 've led a hard life of it, and 
very likely don't deserve any better than I 've re- 
ceived, yet I can't forget that I was once a better 
man and used to kind words from those who loved 
me. And now, although I am both poor and for- 
saken, yet believe me when I say that it is in my 
power to make you as wealthy as your wildest 
fancies could desire. I was born in England ; I 
have not a single relation now living, and to you it 
can be of no consequence what were the circum- 
stances of my early life. It is enough to say that I 
was the younger son of a good family, and was 
destined to the church, for which I was totally un- 
fitted. I was sent to Oxford, but an insatiable 
thirst for adventure caused me to run away. After 
various fortunes in many parts of the world, in 
which the cards were generally against me, it was 
at last my luck to find myself shipped with the 
crew of a pirate schooner, and a motley set we 
were — Spaniards, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Itali- 
ans, Yankees, Greeks — men of all races. Two or 
three years I sailed in her, boarding and burning 
-vessels in the Spanish main. At length a rumor 

reached the nest of pirates to which I belonged tha> : 
the English Government was about to take vigorou 
measures to capture our vessels and destroy ou 
rendezvous. As we had for a long time been ver\ 
successful, without any serious molestation, there 
was all the more reason to believe the report. A 
council of war was called, in which words ran high 
But it was decided that, as our rendezvous was 
well known and would most likely be attacked first 
and we should be unable to defend ourselve: 
successfully against such forces as could be sent 
against us, we ought at once to remove our posses- 
sions and conceal them for awhile in some unknown 
hiding-place. With us to decide was to act, and 
without further delay the treasure, which was enor- 
mous, being the accumulated spoil of many hard 
fights and scuttled ships, was stowed in the holds 
of our vessels. (A little water, surgeon, if you'll 
be so good.) 

" So immense," continued Richard, after a mo- 
ment, "was the stock of dollars and doubloons 
and jewelry that no other ballast was needed for 
the schooners. When everything was on board 
we set fire to the cabins on shore, and by the 
glare of the burning houses dropped down the 
lagoon and made an offing. We headed for the 
coast of Florida, and, the moon being at the full, 
shoved the schooners into an inlet, whose where- 
abouts was known to one of our captains, a native 
of Florida, born at Key West, son of a wrecker, I 
think. It was a very quiet part of the country, 
without so many people as there are about it now ; 
and they are n't over thick even now. We had 
sent some men ashore in a boat in the morning to 
find the exact entrance, and after dark they lit a 
fire on the beach ; so we knew just where to put 
the schooners. At daylight we sailed a long way 
up the bayou, winding about from bend to bend, 
with sweeps or tacking along the shore, and blaz- 
ing the trees as we went along, until we came to a 
clearing in the woods, where the trees seemed to 
have been felled by a hurricane. It was gloomy 
and silent enough — a solitude which we disturbed 
perhaps for the first time. Here we made the ves- 
sels fast to the trees, and all hands went ashore. 
We made tents of old sails, and in a few hours, to 
see the smoke streaming up among the trees, and 
see the boys capering after squirrels and climbing 
after birds' nests, or flinging sticks at the alligators, 
you would have thought it was an old settlement." 

After a brief interval of rest, Richard went on : 





When the provisions and everything else had 
een taken out of the schooners we hove out the 
allast (you remember, it was dollars), and carried 
: into the middle of the clearing. Each man put 
lis share into an earthen pot ; his name, written 
■n a bit of parchment, was placed inside, and his 
nitials were scratched on the outside, and it was 
"l-hen sealed up carefully. The pots of gold and 
"■ liver were then buried in a circle in holes dug 
a ' olerably deep in the ground, and every man planted 
T 1 small tree over his treasure. Our common stock 
)f treasures we next sealed up in a large jar, and 
juried this in the center of the circle and planted a 
"■(ijood-sized tree over this also. 

• After we had secured our valuables, as con- 
"t iiiderable time had been lost in doing all this, it was 
!il 'decided that the schooners should go off on another 
* Expedition at once, and they put to sea, leaving a 
• 'few men under my charge to look after the camp 
a 'and the treasure. Several weeks went by, and no 
n01 -news came from the absent schooners. Our stock 
•> 'of provisions began to run low, and it was impos- 
"l 1 sible to get anything in that desolate maze of a 
morass, overgrown with tangled forests and cut up 
by muddy streams and bayous, especially as we 
^f+'had planted nothing in the clearing, and had not 
« i cleared any more of the land, as we expected that, 
fci of course, the schooners would soon return with a 
-fresh stock. We had always been so lucky that 
not a soul of us dreamed of any trouble. Anyhow, 
the schooners never came back, nor did I ever 
afterward get any clue to their fate. They were 
probably captured and burned, or more likely 
foundered in a hurricane. 

"The rainy season was coming on, and before 
long several of our number had fallen off with 
starvation and disease. My comrades and I talked 
over the situation, and finally concluded to look out 
for number one, and leave the treasure to take care 
of itself. 

"Well, we had a ship's boat with us, and one 
day, after putting a few mouldy biscuits in our 
pockets, we took to our boat and followed the 
bayou until we came to the sea. Then we skirted 
the coast until we reached a settlement, and after 
that separated in different directions, for there was 
no tie of friendship to bind us, and we each had a 
sort of dread that the others might some way be- 
tray him. For years after I wandered about the 
country, — sometimes on the frontier, — until I en- 
listed in the army, not caring much what became 
of me, but half hoping that perhaps I should be 
sent to Florida, as turned out to be the case, to fight 
these Seminoles, and so perhaps catch a chance to 
look up the treasure we had buried in the forest. 
I never had had the ready money, nor, I 'm not 
ashamed to say, the courage to go back alone to 

that spot ; but I got this shot in the leg, and here 
I am, and much good that treasure has done me ! 
But it don't seem quite the thing, you see, that all 
that money and treasure should be buried there 
and be of no kind of use to anybody, and as you are 
the first and the last person that 's been kind to 
me these many years, I '11 trust to you to see that I 
have decent burial, and will tell you just how to 
go to find the treasure. It 's all truth I 've been 
telling you, and you need n't be afraid I 'm spin- 
ning you* a forecastle yarn, but just do as I direct 
you to do, and it '11 make you the richest man in 
the country ; and I don't know who deserves it 

Richard Blount, after this, gave the surgeon very 
minute directions as to how to go in quest of the 
treasure. On the next day the pirate died. As 
soon after this as the surgeon could get leave of 
absence, he made arrangements with a friend to go 
after the supposed mine of wealth concealed in the 
forests of Southern Florida. He could not quite 
believe the story, but the circumstances under 
which it had been disclosed and the fact that money 
had often been concealed by the freebooters of the 
sea, made it sufficiently probable to warrant char- 
tering a small, light-draught schooner and engag- 
ing a crew of blacks able to work the vessel and 
willing to dig in the mud after gold. It was only 
by a very close and tedious observation of the coast 
that the mouth of the bayou was found. On enter- 
ing it from the sea, the line of trees which had been 
blazed was also discovered with some difficulty and 
traced from bend to bend in the dusky light of the 
primeval forest. 

Guided by this clue, often but faintly distin- 
guishable, the treasure-seekers, after slowly sail- 
ing along the devious mazes of the silent waters 
of the wilderness until they almost despaired of 
reaching the end in view, at last burst suddenly 
upon a sort of clearing in the dense mass of vege- 
tation, overgrown with trees of younger growth, 
arising from which a circle of larger trees could be 
distinctly traced, with a central shaft lifting its 
feathery tuft of foliage far up into the blue sky. 
Tent-stakes and other relics of extinct life were also 
visible amid the rank grass which overgrew the 
soil. Everything, thus far, had proved exactly as 
described by Richard Blount, and it was reasonable 
to suppose that, as the story had been found to 
tally in the minutest details with facts, it would 
continue consistent throughout. It was, therefore, 
with renewed zest and with the burning impatience 
which tortures the soul when one is confident of the 
result and sees the desired object almost in his 
grasp, that the doctor seized a pick-axe, and order- 
ing his men to follow suit, broke ground in the last 
stage of the quest after a treasure which his fevered 



I November, 

fancy pictured as more and more colossal as the 
rapturous moment approached when it would be 
opened to view. Such was his impatience that he 
was the first to make a discovery. The point of 
the pick, after turning up the soft soil almost noise- 
lessly for some anxious minutes, at last struck 

jar, but on trying to raise it they found it was 
cracked in several pieces, and that the bottom had 
fallen out. What was more important, the jar was 
empty! Here was a disappointment, to be sure; 
but they would not yet give up heart; there 'were 
still many jars, and perhaps this one was only a 


something hard with a most decided click. The 
next stroke the sound was repeated and at the same 
time a bit of red pottery was thrown up. The doc- 
tor, perspiring with excitement, flung aside the 
pick-axe and, falling on his knees, began to draw 
out the earth with his hands, while everyone stopped 
his work and looked on with breathless expectation. 
It took but a minute to bring to light an earthen 

" blind." But jar after jar was turned up and all 
were found more or less broken, and not a dollar 
did one of them contain. Last of all, the searchers 
cut down the central tree and unearthed the large 
jar over which it stood. This also, crowning disap- 
pointment of all, was in the same condition and 
contained only earth-worms. Baffled, but not quite 
disheartened, the treasure-seekers, as a last resort, 

•- - 




g several feet below where the central jar had 
en. They did not find the treasure they sought, 
t they ascertained where it had gone. 
They came to water, and thus discovered the 
■ution of the mystery, and what had robbed 
em of the gold. They stood on a mere alluvial 
ist of oozy soil, under which the water percolated 
some depth below. The moisture of the earth 
d softened the jars, and the weight of the treasure 
A carried away the bottoms and caused it gradu- 
y to sink lower and lower, as in a quicksand, 
itil it had dropped into the water and, of course, 
it of sight. 

! There was nothing more to be done but to aban- 
in further operations for the time, as such a result 

had not been foreseen and the means for raising 
the money were not at hand. But the following 
year the doctor returned to the bayou with a pump- 
ing machine and ample apparatus for his purpose, 
and after much labor was partially rewarded for his 

Doubloons and guineas, vases and caskets of 
precious metals elaborately chased, the handiwork 
of skilled artisans of various races and ages, and 
gems of price, which had long lain concealed in 
the slime of the forest, again flashed in the sun- 
beams. But all the lost treasure was not regained ; 
some of it eluded the closest scrutiny of avarice 
or enterprise, and still lies buried forever under 
the waters and the sod of Florida. 

By H. H. 

How did I know what the ants had for dinner 
st Monday ? Ha, it is odd that I should have 
nown, but I '11 tell you how it happened. 
I I was sitting under a big pine-tree, high up on a 
igh hill-side. The hill-side was more than seven 
lousand feet above the sea, and that is higher 
lan many mountains which people travel hundreds 
f miles to look at. But this hill-side was in Colo- 
ido, so there was nothing wonderful in being so 
igh up. I had been watching the great mountains 
'ith snow on them, and the great forests of pine- 
"ees, — miles and miles of them, — so close together 
iat it looks as if you could lie down on their tops 
nd not fall through ; and my eyes were tired with 
joking at such great, grand things, so many miles 
ff ; so I looked down on the ground where I was 
itting, and watched the ants which were running 
bout everywhere, as busy and restless as if they 
ad the whole world on their shoulders. 

Suddenly I saw, under a tuft of grass, a tiny yel- 
jw caterpillar, which seemed to be bounding along 
n a very strange way. In a second more, I saw 
n ant seize hold of him and begin to drag him off. 
Phe caterpillar was three times as long as the ant, 
nd his body was more than twice as large round 
is the biggest part of the ant's body. 

" Ho ! ho ! Mr. Ant," said I, " you need n't think 
'ou're going to be strong enough to drag that fel- 
ow very far." 

Why, it was about the same thing as if you or I 
ihould drag off a heifer, kicking and struggling 

VOL, II.— 3. 

for dear life all the time ; only that the heifer 
has n't half so many legs to catch hold of things 
with as the caterpillar had. Poor caterpillar ! how 
he did try to get away ! But the ant never gave 
him a second's time to take a good grip of any- 
thing; and he was cunning enough, too, to drag 
him on his side, so that he could n't use his legs 
very well. Up and down, and under and over 
stones and sticks ; in and out of tufts of grass ; up 
to the very top of the tallest blades, and then down 
again ; over gravel and sand, and across bridges 
of pine-needles from stone to stone ; backward all 
the way, — but, for all I could see, just as swiftly as 
if he were going head-foremost, — ran that ant, 
dragging the caterpillar after him. I watched him 
very closely, thinking, of course, he must be 
making for his house. Presently, he darted up the 
trunk of the pine-tree. 

" Dear me ! " said I, " ants don't live in trees ! 
What does this mean ? " 

The bark of the tree was all broken and jagged, 
and full of seams twenty times as deep as the 
height of the ant's body. But he did n't mind ; 
down one side and up the other he went. They 
must have been awful chasms to him ; and to the 
poor caterpillar too, for their sharp edges caught 
and tore his skin, and doubled him up a dozen 
ways in a minute. And yet the ant never once 
stopped or went a bit slower. I had to watch very 
closely, not to lose sight of him altogether. I be- 
gan to think that he was merely trying to kill the 


I November 

caterpillar ; that, perhaps, he did n't mean to eat 
him, after all. Perhaps he was merely a gentle- 
manly sportsman ant, out on a frolic. How did I 
know but some ants might hunt caterpillars, just 
as some men hunt deer, for fun, and not at all 
because they need food ? If I had been sure of 
this, I would have spoiled Mr. Ant's sport for him 
very soon, you may be sure, and set the poor cater- 
pillar free. But I never heard of an ant's being 
cruel ; and if it were really for dinner for his family 
that he was working so hard, I thought he ought 
to be helped and not hindered. Just then my 
attention was diverted from him by a sharp cry 
overhead. I looked up, and there was an enormous 
hawk, sailing round in circles, with two small birds 
flying after him, pouncing down on his head, and 
then darting away, and all the time making shrill 
cries of fright and hatred. I knew very well what 
that meant. Mr. Hawk also was out trying to do 
some marketing for his dinner ; and he had had 
his eye on some little birds in their nest ; and there 
were the father and mother birds driving him away. 
You would n't have believed two such little birds 
could have driven off such a big creature as the 
hawk, but they did. They seemed to fairly buzz 
round his head as flies do round a horse's head, 
and at last he just gave up and flew off so far that 
he vanished in the blue sky, and the little birds 
came skimming home again into the wood. 

"Well, well," said I, "the little people are 
stronger than the big ones, after all ! Where has 
my ant gone ? " 

Sure enough ! It had n't been two minutes that 
I had been watching the hawk and the birds, but in 
that two minutes the ant and the caterpillar had 
disappeared. At last I found them — where do you 
think ? In a fold of my water-proof cloak, on which 
I was sitting ! The ant had let go of the cater- 
pillar, and was running round and round him, per- 
fectly bewildered ; and the caterpillar was too near 
dead to stir. I shook the fold out, and as soon as 
the cloth lay straight and smooth, the ant fastened 
his nippers in the caterpillar again, and started off 
as fast as ever. I suppose if I could have seen his 
face, and had understood the language of ants' 
features, I should have seen plainly written there, 
" Dear me, what sort of a country was that I tum- 
bled into, so frightfully black and smooth ? " By 
this time the caterpillar had had the breath pretty 
well knocked out of his body, and was so limp and 
helpless that the ant was not afraid of his getting 
away from him. So he stopped a second now and 

then to rest. Sometimes he would spring on the 
caterpillar's back, and stretch himself out there i 
sometimes he would stand still on one side and 
look at him sharply, keeping one nipper on his 
head. All the time, though, he was working steadily 
in one direction ; he was headed for home now, I 
felt very certain. It astonished me very much at 
first, that none of the ants he met took any notice 
of him ; they all went on their own way, and never 
took so much as a sniff at the caterpillar. But 
pretty soon I said to myself: 

" You stupid woman, not to suppose that ants 
can be as well behaved as people ! When you 
passed Mr. Jones yesterday, you did n't peep into 
his market-basket, nor touch the big cabbage he 
had under his arm." 

Presently, the ant dropped the caterpillar, and 
ran on a few steps — I mean inches — to meet an- 
other ant who was coming toward him. They put 
their heads close together for a second. I could 
not hear what they said, but I could easily im- 
agine, for they both ran quickly back to the cater- 
pillar, and one took him by the head and the other 
by the tail, and then they lugged him along finely. 
It was only a few steps, however, to the ant's 
house ; that was the reason he happened to meet 
this friend just coming out. The door was a round 
hole in the ground, about as big as my little finger. 
Several ants were standing in the door- way, watch- 
ing these two come up with the caterpillar. They 
all took hold as soon as the caterpillar was on the 
door-step, and almost before I knew he was fairly 
there, they had tumbled him down, heels over 
head, into the ground, and that was the last I saw 
of him. 

The oddest thing was, how the ants came run- 
ning home from all directions. I don't believe 
there was any dinner-bell rung, though there 
might have been one too fine for my ears to hear ; 
but in less than a minute, I had counted thirty- 
three ants running down that hole. I fancied they 
looked as hungry as wolves. 

I had a great mind to dig down into the hole 
with a stick, and see what had become of the 
caterpillar. But I thought it was n't quite fair to 
take the roof off a man's house to find out how he 
cooks his beef for dinner ; so I sat still awhile, and 
wondered whether they would lay him out straight 
on the floor, and all stand in rows each side of him 
and nibble across, and whether they would leave 
any for Tuesday ; and then I went home to my 
own dinner. 




By Mary E. Bradley - . 

Once was a meadow, where in the June weather 

Daisies and buttercups blossomed together. 

There came a field-lark and built her a nest, — 

Five speckled eggs she hid under her breast ; 

Sitting alone, while afar and above her 

Rang the sweet song of her mate and true lover ; 

While the brown bees all about her were humming, 

And the gay butterflies going and coming, 

Dear little mother-lark never grew weary, 

Never once found herself lonesome or dreary. 

Five baby-larks to be had for the hatching ! 

That, she thought, paid for her waiting and watching. 

When, by and by, came a creeping and cheeping. 

That told the young things from the egg-shells were peeping 
' Oh ! " cried the mother-bird, chirping, caressing, 
' What have I done to deserve such a blessing 

Perfect in form, and delightful in features, 

Who could have dreamed of such exquisite creatures ? " 

Day after day, in a rapture of pleasure, 

She fluttered and fidgeted over her treasure ; 

Cuddled them, sang to them, morning and noon, 

Told all the sweet things that happen in June — 

How the red roses, and larkspur, and clover. 

Dressed in their jewels would sparkle all over; 

How, by and by, — and the lark gave a sigh, — 

All those poor blossoms would wither and die. 

But before snow came, or wintry wild weather. 

They would spread wing and fly south all together. 

Once, with a tale on the tip of her tongue, 

Poor little mother-lark left it unsung ; 

Over her frightened head, gleaming and ringing, 

Came a long scythe, through the meadow-grass swinging; 

Dear little lark, all a-tremble for breath. 

Covered her babies, and waited for death. 

But it flashed over her ; then to the crisis 

Bravely she rose, with her ready devices ; 

Wasted no time in complaint or repining, 

But plucked the dry grasses, and twisting and twining, 

Wove her a roof to arch over her nest, 

Nor stopped for a moment to idle or rest. 

Weaving it, one of the mowing-men found her, 

While the scythes glistened and whistled around her. 

Then he declared that on her and her brood, 

Danger nor terror again should intrude. 

So all the day, through the coming and going, 

Mother-lark sat undisturbed by the mowing ; 

And long before winter, or stormy wild weather, 

All the young larks had gone flying together. 


[November, ' 




By Ellen Frances Terry. 

Now I always said the coon was n't to blame, 
and I say so still. What do you think ? There 
was nothing like a looking-glass to be had in that 
great, green parade-ground ; not even a bit of still 
pool where one might trim whiskers or smooth 
rough locks. Could he imagine himself ugly 
enough to give the children fits ? 

He was a queer fellow, for all the world like a 
small round muff of stiff grey fur, into which had 
crept a tiny animal. From one opening of the 
muff peeped a sharp nose, while from the opposite 
end hung a round fuzzy tail, like a pussy-cat's. 
Now suppose he had known all this he might n't 
even then have thought himself a fright. 

He may be in the fashion at some New South 
Wales of the animal kingdom. 

This is all about it. The coon was out for a 
walk, the evening being fine. First he smelled 
about the back-yard, where there was a charming 
fragrance of chicken from day-before-yesterday's 

Then he crossed the parade and inspected Post 
No. 2, where the sentinel was walking up and down 
on the dry spots of the pavement. Three steps to 
the right brought him in front of the Colonel's 
quarters — an old-fashioned brick house, full of win- 

dows. It was just beginning to open one bright 
eye after another, as lamps were lit here and there. 

Master Coon halted in front of the door, and just 
then Sylvia, the children's nurse, came out with a 
white pitcher in her hand to go for water to the 
street pump. 

After Sylvia, poured a broad ribbon of red light 
into the grey twilight, and then came a puff of 
warm air, blown up the kitchen stairway, through 
the hall and out at the open door. That was a 
pleasant, coaxing little breeze ! It wrapped about 
you gently, like a warm shawl, and brought such 
agreeable news from the kitchen, where Mamma 
Frances was getting tea ! Each little gale came 
rushing out, brimful of its own secret ; and the 
coon heard them all. 

" Tea ! " whispered one. 

" Toast ! " cried another. 

And the third was bursting with " Stewed oys- 
ters ! " 

Oh, Sylvia ! why did you stay so long at the 
pump ? And why could n't you let the Hobson's 
Joe go home quietly with the family rolls ? But 
then, to be sure, I should have had nothing to say. 

Oh ! it was dreadful to turn a virtuous nose and 
a deaf ear to the pleadings of those unprincipled 



;usts of perfumed air who laughed together as they 
an up stairs, and sang, over and over again, the 
ame words, "Tea!" ''Toast!" "Stewed oys- 
ers ! " 

At last ! at last that chilly, shivery animal could 
>ear it no longer. Sylvia came up the steps with 
ihe water-pitcher balanced on her head, and presto ! 
Master Coon slipped into the hall before her and 
vaited in a corner for further orders from his nose. 

But alas ! in the meantime somebody shut the 
loor, — the kitchen door, — and though he could 
lear the wind moan and whine on the other side, 
:here was that solid oak-plank between the sweet 
Dyster fragrance and that long, sharp nose which 
;ould never creep into its muff. 

Sylvia was in a terrible hurry, as usual ; so, shut- 
:ing the hall door and opening the door of the din- 
ng-room, she fell in with a sort of plunge, which 
tvas her custom. What a pleasant sight ! Fire- 
lights, and little fair-haired children playing in the 
red and yellow glow. Master Coon crept timidly 
forward, but the burning logs shot a spiteful little 
arrow, and by its light the odd intruder was revealed 
to Harry, of all people. 

He was tilted back in his chair, his hands clasped 
behind his head, lazily enjoying the agreeable dis- 
patches that the kitchen was sending in by way of 
the dumb-waiter. But, half asleep as he seemed, 
no sooner did the coon appear than he sprang up 
with a bound and gave chase to the poor beast. 
Hurrah ! Tally-ho ! Crash went the chair ; away 
'flew Harry, and before him fled the terrified coon. 
Oh, where ? Here ! There ! Everywhere ! Up- 
stairs — downstairs — down the passage — back again 
— now a cross-cut behind the wood-box — to the 
head of the stairs again 

Oh, cruel boy ! Oh, innocent coon ! 

Harry had long legs ; but the darkness was the 
coon's friend. At last both made a halt. Harry 
stopped half-way upstairs, listening in the dark for 
any soft, rustling noises, and, only two steps off, 
crouched the coon in a corner of the stairs, panting, 
trembling, in an agony of fear. 

" I say, Sylvia ! bring a light here ! " shoute 

Sylvia, forgetting tea, children, — everything, — 
fell upstairs with the kerosene lamp, which she 
hastily caught from the table. Here was a dread- 
ful new enemy, with rows of white, shining teeth 
and heavy boots, which struck terror to the heart 
of the fugitive. Downstairs he flew, three steps 
at a time, while Sylvia was looking in all sorts of 
impossible places and Harry was moving out the 
wood-box to search behind it. 

Meanwhile, as I said, the coon, passing them all 
unnoticed, flew down the stairs and sprang off the 
last three steps into the very face of little Julie ! 

Aunt Fanny was dressing in her room ; mamma 
in the kitchen was consulting Aunt Frances aboftt 
breakfast. Suddenly a piercing shriek rang through 
the house, then another in a different key. 

" Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-w-w ! " 

" Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-h-h ! " 

Then came a duet. 

" Ohow-owoh-owoh ! " 

Aunt Fanny threw her towel over her shoulders, 
unbolted the door and flew to the rescue. She had 
ears only for the " Ow-ow ! " notes, which she knew 
to be the wail of her blue-eyed darling, Julie. 
Mamma, at the same moment, arrived breathless 
from the kitchen stairs, and above all the deafening 
din she heard only the screams of Goldilocks — 

Can't you see the tableau on the winding stair- 
case ? Harry, greatly excited, but quite useless, 
because wedged in behind the wood-box ; Sylvia on 
the landing holding the kerosene lamp as if it were 
a pistol, and showing all her great teeth like a 
healthy young cannibal; Aunt Fanny flying down 
with hair streaming, towel flapping and shawl drag- 
ging ; mamma, at the foot of the stairs, angry, 
breathless, distressed ; on the third step from the 
bottom Nelly, trembling with fright and screaming 
in concert with Julie on the fifth stair. 

What it all meant nobody knew, least of all the 
agonized coon, who had taken refuge in the corner 
on the door-mat. One thing seemed clear — the 
babies were left to their fate in the lower hall alone, 
and the anger of mamma and aunty broke forth. 

" Oh, Harry ! how could you leave — ■— " 

" To think of these poor " 

" Any one with the least man " 

" The most cruel " 

" The darlings ; I would n't ! " 

"Ow-ow!" "Oh-oh!" 

" Owoh ! ohow ! " 

The din was fearful, and the amazed Harry vainly 
tried to make himself heard. 

" But, mamma, I didn't " 

" My darling Julie, I never " 

" Nelly, pet, did they leave " 

" I should think any boy " 

" The darlings ! They shall never " 

But Harry, floundering in this sea of words de- 
termined to be heard, and putting together his 
closed fists, like a speaking-trumpet, roared, as a 
captain might call to his crew in a north-easter : 

"But — I — did n't — do— anything — but — chase — 
the — coo-oon !"" 

Just at this moment papa opened the front-door 
and Master Coon ran through as if twenty boys 
were after him, to say nothing of cannibals with 
great, white teeth. He ran fast and faster, till he 
slipped into a hole under the wood-pile, and there 


[November | 

in the darkness he listened and trembled for a long, 
dismal hour. I need not tell you that he never 
visited the Colonel's quarters again ; and if he saw 
Sylvia with the pitcher on her head, going to the 
pump, or heard Harry's whistle, he scudded away 
to that safe little hole, where he hid himself and his 

Nelly and Julie sobbed and cried, and were kissed 
and petted to their hearts' content. They were 
also consoled by cakes from the cupboard and gum- 

drops from Aunt Fanny's pocket, and were wise 
enough not to be comforted so long as these gooc 
things lasted. 

Of course everything was explained. Everybody 
proved to have been right and nobody in the 

But it was a relief to find, after all, that one per 
son could be scolded, and that was Sylvia, who cer 
tainly ought not to have left the door open. Now 
that is my moral. 


In and out, in and out, 
Through the clouds heaped about, 
Wanders the bright moon. 

What she seeks, I do not know ; 
Where it is, I cannot show. 

I am but a little child, 

And the night is strange and wild. 

In and out, in and out, 
Wanders the bright moon 

In and out, in and out, 
She will find it soon. 

There she comes ! as clear as day,- 
Now the clouds are going away. 
She is smiling, I can see, 
And she 's looking straight at me. 

Pretty moon, so bright and round, 
Wont you tell me what you found ? 

2 74-1 




By Mary Haines Gilbert. 

i — 

" Hey ! old Peanuts ! How much a pint ? " 

" Twelve cents," answered the old man who pre- 
iided at the stand. 

" But look here," said the ragged little ques- 
ioner, " could n't you let 'em go for ten cents, 
;eein' as I want to keep Thanksgivin' and have n't 
my more than this." 

He held up a torn ten-cent stamp. 

"That's no good," said the old man. "The 
Gover'ment don't take torn ones." 

" There is quite a piece off it," said the boy, 
looking wistfully at the piles of peanuts, " but you 
;ould pass it. It was passed on me." 

The old man shook his head. " Torn ones don't 
go," he answered. 

"Gosh! That 's so," said the boy. " I 've tried 
it in three places. Can't keep Thanksgivin', I 
s'pose. Wish I war you." 

" Do you ? " asked the old man, smiling faintly. 
" But I am not keeping Thanksgiving either." 

"I would, if I war you," said the boy. " I 'd 
eat a whole quart." 

" You would n't, if you had no teeth to eat 'em 
with," answered the old peanut seller, "and didn't 
like 'em. Once I cared for peanuts ; but that 's 
long ago." 

" What do you keer for now ? " asked the boy. 
" How do you like to keep Thanksgiving? " 

" I should n't care to keep it at all," said the old 
man. " I used to keep it ; but one day is like an- 
other now, and that is best for me. I have nothing 
to be particularly thankful for now-a-days, and I 
don't want to think of the old times." 

"How were the old times?" asked the other 
leaning against the lamp-post close by. 

" What 'd be the use of telling you," grumbled 
the old man. You could n't help me, — nobody 
could that I know of." 

Yet he went on as if it relieved him to tell his 
troubles even to the small ragged boy beside him. 

" My boy John went out West, and was scalped 
by the Injuns. I knew how it 'd be. I wanted him 
to stay on the old farm with me ; it was in Penn- 
sylvany ; but it was a small place, and half stones, 
and mortgaged for nearly all it was worth at that ; 
so he would go to make his fortune, as he said. 
His wife that he left behind him till he cleared his 
claim fit for her to live on, — why, in less 'n a year 
after he was dead, she married again, and they 

took John's boy with 'em to New York. That 's 
the last I heard of little Johnny." 

" But did n't you come to New York to look after 
him ? " asked the boy. 

" Yes," answered the old man, " of course I did, 
or I would n't be on this Chatham street corner 
selling peanuts to-day. She promised to write, but 
she never did, so at last I could n't stand it any 
longer and I sold the old place and came to 
New York. I got partial track of 'em two or 
three times, but at last I had to give it up. 
Then my money was about gone, and I set up this 
stand and have sold peanuts ever since — that 's five 
year. No, there 's no Thanksgiving for me unless 
I find Johnny ; and I never shall." 

" Mebbe you will," said the boy. " Things tarn 
up sometimes when you aint a-lookin' fer 'em, 
like this ten-cent stamp. I did n't set any hopes on 
keepin' Thanksgivin' ; but a man says to me, as I 
was a-standin' in Fulton market, 'Would you carry 
this turkey as far as the Third avenue cars ? ' Sol 
did. But as sure as my name is Johnny Mooney 
I was cheated after all, unless you take it." 

"Is your name Johnny?" asked the old man. 
" Well, then, you shall keep Thanksgiving for me, 
for your name." 

He poured a pint of peanuts in Johnny's hat. 
The boy held out the torn stamp. 

"No, no," said the old man, "throw it in the 
gutter. I might pass it on somebody that 'd go 
hungry on account of it. I don't want to be wicked, 
if I can't be thankful." 

" Then here she goes," said Johnny, tossing the 
stamp into the gutter, " and thank you, Old Pea- 
nuts. But what makes the boys all call you ' Old 
Peanuts ? ' " he added, cracking a nut between his 
teeth ; "or mebbe it 's your name ? " 

" It 's as good a name as any other," said the old 
man. " I have n't seemed to myself to be John 
Dorfling since that happened. So I 'd rather be 
called Old Peanuts." 

Johnny went down Chatham street crunching 
his peanuts and hopping in glee, and Old Pea- 
nuts leaned his wrinkled cheeks in his hands and 

" May be worse things '11 come upon me by my 
unthankfulness," he said to himself; "but I can't 
be thankful. But worse could not come. If I had 
only died long ago ! " 



[November, |jj 

Presently another small boy stopped in front of 
him, — ragged, shoeless and hatless, but with a 
clean, jolly-looking face. 

" Five cents' worth of peanuts," he said, briskly. 

Old Peanuts poured the peanuts into the boy's 
pocket, which he held open to receive them." 

" And here 's a ten," said the boy. 

" A torn one again ! " said the old man. " It 
looks like the very same one offered me just now. 
Where "d you get it ? " 

wont let me in," he said, laughing and trying 
to disentangle the mass of brown hair on his 

"Who wont let you in ? " asked Old Peanuts. 

" Why, the Mission," answered the boy. "Andf' 
it 's most time to be there. 



' The stamp is n't good," said Old Peanuts, i 
handing it back to the boy. 

' Why, yes, it is," said the boy. ". It 's only 

"Out of the gutter down the street," said the 

" It must have gone floating down," said Old 
Peanuts. " Well, they say a bad penny always 
turns up again." 

"Give me the five, quick," said the boy. "I 
want to buy some taffy with the rest." 

" Going to keep Thanksgiving, too, I s'pose," 
said the old man, " though I 'd like to know what 
you can have to be thankful for." 

"Lots," said the boy. " Fustly, for this luck. 
I don't pick up ten-^ent stamps every day." 

" Well, and what else ? " asked Old Peanuts. 

" 'Cause I 'm going to get a splendid dinner. 
But I must give my hair a-pullin' out, or they 

"But it's torn," said Old Peanuts. " I told a 
boy just now to fling it into the gutter." 

" He must be a funny boy to fling stamps away," 
said the boy, laughing. 

"No," said Old Peanuts; "not so funny as 
you think ; he only went in for being fair. But I 
gave him a pint of peanuts because his name was 

"Then you ought to give me a pint," said the 
boy, laughing again, " for my name 's Johnny, 

" Don't stand there laughing at me and telling 
lies ! " said the old man, impatiently. 

" 'T aint lies," answered the boy. " My name 
is Johnny. There! lean prove it." He drew a 

= 74-] 



: nall thin card out of his jacket pocket and held 
i up. "Read that," he said, triumphantly. 
It was a card of admission to the Mission-House 
inner. The old man snatched it and read " John 

" You ! " he said. His hands shook so that the 
ird slipped out of them. Just then there came a 
ust of wind and away went the card and the boy 
fter it. The old man tried to call him back, but 
e was too much agitated to speak. He shook in 
very limb, but he started after the boy, running 
3 fast as he could. But the boy ran twice as fast, 
nd he disappeared around a corner. Then the 
Id man raised a feeble cry, "Johnny! Johnny! 
top. Johnny ! " He turned the corner, breathless, 
ut the boy was no longer in sight. On went the 
Jd man, looking right and left, peering in the open 
oor-ways and gazing wildly down the cross-streets. 
iut suddenly he thought, "How silly I am ! He 
.as found his ticket and gone to the Mission 
.inner." So, with renewed hope, he turned his 
:teps toward the Mission. 

I He explained his errand to the door-keeper, and 
i/as ushered into a large room where two hundred 
Icr more boys and girls sat at long tables laughing 
j.nd talking merrily and devouring good things. 
Jp and down the passages Old Peanuts walked, 
;azing at every brown-haired boy ; but he did not 
ee Johnny. 

Then the children were appealed to. Silence 
;vas called for and the question asked, " Is John 
Oorfling here, or does any one here know him ? " 
3ut all the children shook their heads. The super- 
ntendent then searched the books and found the 
lame "John Dorfling," he said, "but no address, 
rle probably did not know it. Many of the chil- 
dren cannot tell where they live." 

" But I suppose he will come in again next Sun- 
day," said Old Peanuts. 

The superintendent shook his head. 
"It is doubtful," he said. " You see a great 
many come in a week or two before Thanksgiving, 
oecause we give them all a good dinner. But only 
:hose who have been with us three months have 
:ickets to the Christmas festival. Yet he may come 
next Sunday again. Drop in and see," he added, 
unwilling to send the old man away without any 

" Ah ! if I had only staid at my stand," Old Pea- 
nuts thought, as he hurried along to the Chatham 
street corner. " He has the ten cents and the pea- 
nuts too, but if he is like his father he will come 
back." So he went to his stand, vaguely expecting 
to find his grandson there. But the other Johnny 
stood beside the stand instead. 

" You ought not to leave your stand 'thout any- 
body to look after it," he said. "A lot of fellers 

war agoin' to make off with your peanuts, but I 
happened up and hollered ' Perlice ! ' and they 
thought I owned the concern and took to their 
heels. The perlice did n't come, but I kept guard 
and sold five pints too. And there war a boy here 
as said he owed you five cents, and " 

" Where is he ? " cried the old man. 

" Why, he left the five and he went away," said 
the boy. "I don't know which way; I war n't 

" It was Johnny," said the old man, wringing 
his hands. " Now I shall never see him again." 
In a choked voice he told the story. 

" Don't take on," said the boy. " Ef I 'd 
a-knowed it I 'd held onter him. Next time I will. 
I '11 know him again. " 

" Ah ! " said Old Peanuts, tears rolling down his 
cheeks, " I thought I could n't have more trouble; 
but to find him only to lose him again, it is more 
than I can bear. But he is a good, honest boy, — 
I knew he was." 

" I '11 look for him," said the boy. " I was 
agoing to the Central Park to see the animals; but 
never mind ; and it 's an awful ways to walk, so I 
don't keer much. And here 's for the five pints." 

" No ; keep it for taking care of my stand," said 
Old Peanuts. 

" No," said the boy. " The peanuts you gave 
me paid for that. I aint mean. Good-by. Don't fret. 
Mebbe I '11 fetch him along afore you know it." 

The old man sat down by his stand, but he could 
not rest. 

"I'll look for him too," he said. "Ah! if I 
could only find him I would keep Thanksgiving. 
If God would only help me ; but I have been so 
unthankful to Him I have no right to expect it." 

He locked up his stand and went down toward 
the City Hall, then up Broadway and across Canal 
street, then down to Chatham street again, and 
through the dirty cross-streets and lanes, — up and 
down — up and down, until his feet were so tired 
that they slipped under him. At last when night 
came he went back to his stand, unlocked it and 
sat down on his stool. But he was worn out ; and 
as he leaned his head against the pine-boards his 
eyes closed. Soon he was in dreamland. He was 
keeping Thanksgiving with his wife and his son 
and little Johnny. They were all at the village 
church, singinp hymns, and then again at the old 
farm-house, eating their Thanksgiving dinner. 
Little Johnny climbed on his knee and kissed him, 
and then pulled his hair in fun. 

"Don't pull so hard, Johnny," he said. And 
then he opened his eyes. 

" Yes, I must pull, if you don't wake up," said a 
voice. " We tried ticklin' and everything. You 
sleep so sound." 




Old Peanuts opened his eyes widely and rubbed 
them, but still he was afraid that he was asleep, for 
the two Johnnies stood beside him. 

" Went to Central Park after all," said the first 
Johnny, " and found him looking at the animals. 
Thought mebbe I would." 

" Are you my grandpop?" asked Johnny num- 
ber two. " If you are, I 'm glad, though you made 
me lose my dinner." 

The old man drew the boy to him and held him 
closely in his arms as if he were afraid he would 
lose him again. 

" And your mother? " he asked. " Will she let 
me have you ?" 

" She died," answered the boy ; " died long ago 
— him too ; and I take care of myself helping a 
junk man." 

" And hereafter Grandpap will take care of you," 
the old man said. " Thank God, I have found 
you, and now we will eat our Thanksgiving din- 

So, hand in hand, the three walked up the Bow- 
ery, and down a side street, to Old Peanuts' lodg- 
ings. He bought a cooked turkey and other good 
things on his way there, and at the door he stopped 
to ask a neighbor or two to "come up and help 
them be merry." 

What a happy, blessed day they had, after all ! 
How they talked and laughed, and how Old Pea- 
nuts leaned back in his chair and almost cried with 

joy when Johnny sang a pretty song for them thaj ( fei 
he had learned at ragged-school ! 

For the first time in years, John Dorfling, whe 
he sat down to the table, bowed his head in pen-, y 
itence and grateful prayer. But his thanksgiving 
did not end with that day, nor for many a day. 






In fact, he is hale and hearty yet. This very 
year he and Johnny hope to keep " Thanksgiving' 1 
with the other Johnny ; and after dinner they all 
are going to ride in the horse-cars to the Park to 
see the animals. 



By Sara Keablf.s Hunt. 

Some time since there appeared in the columns 
of St. Nicholas, an account- of a Chinese boy 
named Joseph, or, as it is called in Chinese, Ya- 
sek, and it so reminded me of a little Arab boy in 
Egypt of the same name that I decided to tell you 
his story and show you the difference of the names 
in Chinese and Arabic. 

In Egypt Joseph is pronounced Yusuf, and writ- 
ten as you see at the beginning of this sketch. You 
must commence at the right hand and read toward 
the left, which is the peculiarity of Arabic litera- 

Little Yusuf was born on the shore of the Medi- 

terranean sea, a few miles from the city of Alexan- 
dria. His home was a most cheerless place to 
civilized eyes ; for it was a tent; not like the white, 
gaily-trimmed tents that dot the sea-shores of our 
summer resorts, but an old brown weather-beaten 
affair, patched all over and looking as if a strong 
gale of wind could easily blow it to pieces. 

But here Yusuf spent his childhood; here he 
built his miniature houses in the sand, waded into 
the blue waves that curled on the shore, and sang 
away the long sunny days as happy a little fellow 
as ever lived. 

That was a queer family to which he belonged. 


: "tj 


' ■ ie father was generally absent, for he was a camel- 

ver, and spent much time on his "ship of the 

sert," but the mother was always there ; a brown- 

:ed woman, her chin and forehead tattooed, and 

r hair, poor as she was, braided in long, broad 

lits and ornamented with gold coins. 

There was a sister two years older than Yusuf. 

t, like the Chinese, the Arabs care little for the 

rls of a family, and only rejoice when a boy is 

rn ; so Yusuf 's sister was sadly neglected, as if a 

ry insignificant specimen of humanity. 

Then there were the goats (a most important 

.rt of the family), whose milk the mother sold. 

hey were perfectly at home in the little tent, and 

e and slept there without any hesitation or bash- 

Iness. Many a time little Yusuf would fall asleep 

.th the goats beside him. 

The first money that Yusuf ever earned was by 
inning out of the tent and begging every passer-by 
r " backshush " (a present). I think he really 
d earn those few pennies which were thrown to 
im, for he would stand out in the hot sun and 
lout " Baksees " till he was hoarse; and such a 
.ughable appearance did he make in his one loose 
arment and fat little figure that many an amused 
aveler threw him a piastre (about l]/z cents) out 
, f pure good-nature. 
As Yusuf grew older, however, he began to real- 
;e that he could not spend his whole life begging 
"om a tent-door, and the thought suddenly flashed 
cross his mind, "What shall I do?" 

At last he said, slowly, " I should like to be a 
lonkey-boy." But to be a donkey-boy he must 
iwn a donkey, and how to buy one was the ques- 

Poor little Yusuf sat down in the sand and 
:ounted, for the fiftieth time, his tiny store of silver, 
md with a deep sigh finally put it away again, say- 
ng, with true Egyptian philosophy : 

" Well, if the Lord wants me to have a donkey, 
re will give me one." And having arrived at this 
inclusion he went home with his usual contented 

Leaving Yusuf for awhile, waiting like the im- 
nortal Mr. Micawber, for "something to turn up," 
et us see what class of boys is this which our little 
lero wishes to join. 

The donkey is the great institution of Egypt, 
rhe long-eared creatures crowd the narrow streets 
)f those far-off cities, ambling along sometimes 
vith a fat Turk balancing himself with difficulty 
mi the ungainly saddle. Again one paces along 
:arrying an amused traveler intent on sight-seeing. 
\.nd often, on the banks of the wondrous Nile, 
inder the shadow of the palm-trees, beneath the 
;olden light of the Egyptian skies, you may see 
me bearing a woman with a child clasped in her 

arms, so like to that old familiar picture that you 
have looked upon many times, of Mary and the 
infant Jesus in their flight into Egypt ! It is a more 
beautiful and touching sight than any other in that 
Eastern land. 

I had almost compared the donkey-boys of Egypt 
to the news-boys of New York ; and, indeed, I do 
believe them to possess many traits in common. 
Their rough, independent life, their intercourse 
with every class of humanity, their shrewd cunning, 
all may be found on this side the Atlantic in the 
streets of our own city. 

They are quick to catch foreign phrases, and 
many of them can speak, though imperfectly, three 
or four languages. 

When his passenger is mounted, the owner of 
the donkey — that is, the donkey-boy — always runs 
behind his property, urging him forward with a 
stick which he carries and with one magic word, 
well comprehended by the donkey, sounding like 
" Haa ! " The boy will often run a long distance, 
apparently without fatigue, now and then breaking 
out into a wild kind of singing. They are the 
happiest race of boys in the world. What wonder 
Yusuf wished to join them ! 

And it was this class of boys that Yusuf was de- 
sirous of joining. 

At present there was quite a band of them at 
every station in Ramie, — the name of the settle- 
ment where he lived, — and when the train was due 
you could see them standing in waiting, with their 
keen eyes wide open, and all their energies awake, 
ready to spring upon the traveler like a cat upon 
a mouse. 

" El barboor egy ! " (the train comes) is their 
cry, as the iron horse comes snorting in at the 
depot. Then they all rush upon the first unfortu- 
nate man who alights, shouting : 

" Tek dis donkey, howaga ; he good donkey." 

Another — " Coom here, mister; dat no good; 
mine de best." 

A third — " Tally yu sitt, ente owes el harmai? " 
(" Come, lady ; do you want a donkey ? ") 

At last it is settled, and the riders go galloping 
across the plains. They pay the boys a few piastres 
for a short distance, and though they should sur- 
prise them with a double amount, the little ungrate- 
ful fellows will be sure to ask for more. 

It was after watching these boys, and now and 
then rendering them some assistance, that Yusuf 
decided upon his vocation in life. 

But time passed on in this strange monotonous 
land where the cold snows and frosts never come 
and the sun is ever shining. Still Yusuf seemed 
as far away from his desired hopes as when they 
first occurred to him. 

One bright afternoon he was lying in the tent- 




door half-asleep ; the old mother sat busily making 
the coarse brown bread, which was to serve as their 
evening meal. The goats crouched in the sand in 
the shadow of the tent with their noses pointed to 
the sea, as if to sniff the fresh breeze that swept 
softly inland, shaking the loose sides of the tent till 
it sounded like the sails of a boat flapping_ in the 

The little girl had gone down to the water in an 
old woolen skirt that served as a bathing dress, 
and was far out in the waves, jumping up and 
down and plashing the crystal spray in every direc- 

Suddenly there came a swift galloping from over 
the plains approaching every second nearer. Yu- 

and may the good Allah grant thee success anfc : 

favor. ! 


So saying, he lifted the astonished boy into tb i 
saddle, and at a word the donkey was off with h: 
delighted owner. 

On, on, away over by the ruins of Caesar's Camp 
away on by the unfinished Palace of the Khedive 
that building which superstition says will alway 
remain uncompleted ; for they say that the mothe 
of His Highness dreamed once that when it shoul. 
be finished her son would die. The workmen seen 
always busy, but the palace grows slowly ; and no\ 
and then one part is torn down to be builded differ 

Yusuf began now to notice that the sun was ver 


suf sprang up, and shading his eyes from the sun 
with his brown hand he looked in the direction of 
the sound. The mother paused in her efforts at 
bread-making, and put her tattooed face and torn 
dress outside the tent. The water grew very quiet 
around the little bather, yonder; she, too, was 
shading her eyes and looking eagerly ; even the 
goats got up and came out of the shadow to see 
what was the matter. 

" It is thy father, Yusuf," said the mother ; " but 
he cometh sitting upon an ass." 

As she thus spoke the father — for it was indeed 
he — alighted among them from a beautiful grey 
donkey, and throwing the bridle to Yusuf, he said : 

" Take this gift, my son. I bestow it upon thee 
that thou mayest go out and seek thy fortune ; 

low; and, as the twilights are short in Egypt, hef 
turned his face homeward that he might reach there 
before dark. 

Ah ! that was a happy night for Yusuf ! 

What visions of wealth flitted before his mind as j 
he and his companion lay down to sleep after a 
good supper. 

Yusuf dreamed that the donkey spoke to him, 
and that with every word pearls fell from his mouth. 

But just as he was stooping to gather them up 
he was awakened by the loud braying of his new 
treasure, and springing up, he said : 

"How now, my friend? Dost thou call me to 
arise? Good morning to thee — good morning." 

So Yusuf has at last gained his desire, and now 
he is in the city of Cairo, among the donkey-boys 



:hat oriental place, fast learning their "tricks babe in the bulrushes of the same mysterious river, 
their manners." But let us leave him on those hoping that some good hand will lift him up and 
I off banks of the Nile as Moses' mother left her save him from the dangers around. 


By Lucy J. Rider. 

Ocean G?vve, N. J., July 29, 1874. 
I Dear Mother: I got here last night. Uncle 

sn's folks live in a tent. We have lots of black- 

Willie has got a shovel to dig. He digs sand, 
id it feels nice to your feet. He goes barefoot, 
ad I am going barefoot. All the boys go barefoot. 

Please send me fifty cents, all together, and I will 
rite the other letters pretty soon. I want it to buy 

shovel, so I can dig too. Willie' says he would 
ot write a letter for the best ten cents that ever 
r as born ; but I told him a bargain 's a bargain ; 
nd Uncle Ben said, " Stick to that, Mister Gritty." 

I was 'most starving on the cars, and had to get 
ame candy, and the boy said may be there was a 
old watch or a gold ring in the candy ; but there 
'as n't ; so please send me the fifty cents. Aunt 
lartha sleeps in a lounge that has a bed inside of 
:, and Willie and I sleep on the floor, on a bed. 

In the morning, hers shuts right up and makes a 
)unge, and ours is put away, I think, for it is n't 
lere ; only the floor. 

I guess I don't make much trouble yet. I got 
sme candy on my shirt, and some sand, but I 
r iped it off with my handkerchief. We came in a 
:age from Long Branch. I saw the President's 
ouse and the ocean. It has some pine-trees before 
:. And I saw a man with a tall white hat on him 
nd a real cigar, and it was the President. 

I sat with the driver, and the horses stepped in 
the mud. It came on my face, and my handker- 
chief stuck, so the driver let me take his. It was 
the shirt that made it stick so. 

There 's lots of carriages here ; and the driver is 
a black man, with white gloves and white pants and 
a tall white hat and tall shiney boots, and he sits up 
very straight ; and a black coat, with two rows of 
gold buttons on the front side and tails. 

The women look funny here. They have great 
big men's hats and blue glasses, and big umbrellas 
when it don't rain ; and they walk round. 

Willie goes in bathing 'most every day, and I am 
going this afternoon. — Your boy, 

Dick Hardin. 

P. S. — How is the baby? Please don't forget to 
send the fifty cents. D. H. 

August 10, 1874. 

Dear Mother : I got the fifty cents and your 
letter. I got a shovel. This letter makes twenty 
cents. There 's a nawful big tent, and they are 
going to have a camp-meeting. They preach right 
outdoors on Sunday, only there 's a little house 
with a bill on it where the preacher is. 

They have Sunday-school in the big tent, and 
it 's jolly. I go bathing every day. The men wear 
trousers, and the women wear trousers too, with 
little skirts and men's hats. Uncle Ben takes me 

4 6 



in, and when the breakers come he lifts me 'way 
up. The breakers are when the water is high up 
and foamy. 

He made me float. You just lie down on your 
back, and he puts his hand under you. 

I floated till I got some in my mouth. It 's salt. 
It made me feel like castor oil. 

You 'd ought to see Uncle Ben float ' He don't 
swallow any. The water comes right over his head 
and then it runs out of his nose and ears, and he 
don't care a bit: He can swim. 

A woman's hat came off and she squealed, and 
he swam after it. 

He says I can learn to swim. You just lie 
right down on your face and kick and paw, and 
don't get scared. 

It makes your legs and arms look white in the 
water, and it looks like a big frog when you kick so 
hard. I wear one of Willie's suits, and it makes 
my arms long. A man called me " Hello, legs ! " 
once. I think it is because the trousers are a little 
too short. They take out their teeth to go in 

Something ails my shirts, they get dirty so fast. 
I tore a hole in my grey trousers; but 'most all the 
boys tear holes in their trousers ; and Aunt Martha 
sewed it up. 

Uncle Ben says there 's big crabs in the sea, and 
once a crab caught his toes ; but he kicked, and it 
let go. It did not hurt much. I aint afraid. 

How is the baby ? D. HARDIN. 

August 20. 1874. 

Dear Mother : I have lots of fun. When I 
get cold in the water I come out and sit on the hot 
sand. Sometimes I lie down in the sand, but then 
the sand sticks to my clothes and scratches. 

There are little crabs in the sand. You can turn 
them up with your toes. They kick awfully, and 
dig right down in the sand again till you can't but 
just see their backs. They have little shells, and 
you can't tell which end is the head, because they 
have so many legs. 

There 's lots of other folks down on the beach ; 
and a man goes round and sells newspapers. There 
was a big fat woman and she had a little boy. The 
boy was scared and screamed very loud, but she 
pulled him right in and churned him up and down 
in the water. 

'Most all the babies cry when their mothers take 
them in, and the women and girls squeal and say 
" Oh ! " and breathe hard; but the men don't do 
anything, but just walk right in. I don't do any- 
thing, but just walk right in. When a big wave 
comes, that is n't a breaker, you must jump up, and 
the wave carries you a little ways back and sets you 
on your feet, if it don't tip you over. I used to 

breathe when my head got under water, but it ell 

not feel good, so now I don't. 

I stepped on a smooth thing that wiggled, and 
got off. Uncle Ben said it was a lobster, and 1: 
said it was worse scared than I was. 

I know how to row on the lake. Willie has 
boat. I have earned six cents rowing. 

I broke Willie's oar, and he cried, and I ga\ 
him my knife and a fish-hook. It had one blad 
gone. We go fishing sometimes, and have worm 
and grasshoppers for bait. Aunt Martha say 
worms and cookies ought not to go in a boy 

I got my shoe wet, and dried it in the oven. I 
puckered up some, and I can't pull it on. I gues 
it burned a little, for it smelled pretty bad. I liki 
to go barefoot. 

The arm-hole of my coat 'most came out, bu 
Aunt M. fixed it in. M. stands for Martha; anc 
the place she sewed in my trousers came open, s 
now I wear my black ones. This is thirty cents 
How is the baby ? Your boy, 

D. Hardin. 

... ■ 




P. S. — It was on the knee, 
made it come open. 

I don't know what 5: 


September 1, 1874. 
Dear Mother : This is four letters, which is 
forty cents. I think I '11 row and earn the other 
ten, for Uncle Ben is going away soon. I almost 
cried when the letter came. I don't want to go 
home in the day-time ; but sometimes Willie kicks, 
and the sea makes a nawful noise in the night. 
He had the toothache last night, and cried, and 
kept us all awake. Aunt M. (for Martha) put on 
some pepper and salt, but it ached worse. Then 
she gave him some dysentery medicine, and so he 
went to sleep. 




nVhen a big breaker ccJmes, sometimes it knocks 
<s over. I saw two girls ; one had on a blue 
ij.'ss and a blue ribbon on her hat; the other had 
a brindle dress and a shoe-string. The shoe- 
ing was on her hat, to tie it down. 
They walked right in, but a breaker knocked 
;m over, and all the folks laughed. The brindle 
e rolled over and over like a log, but the blue 

one went endways and turned three somersaults 
— I counted. The men ran and picked them up. 
and they coughed and sneezed. The blue one 
looked hoppin' mad, because the folks laughed ; 
but the brindle one laughed too. 

Uncle Ben got me a new pair of shoes. I have 
got a crab in a bottle of vinegar for the baby. 

Your son, DICKENSON H. 

By M. D. Ruff. 

The most beautiful lady I ever saw was born 

i ,jout two thousand years ago. In all that long 

me she has not once turned her head nor ever 

loved her lips to answer, though men and women 

/erywhere have been her lovers ; though artists 

- c ave worshiped and poets have sung to her; 

lough wise men have written learned treatises and 

marched mouldy records to discover her story. 

She has no color in her face, nor in her eyes or 

air. One cannot say that she is blonde or bru- 

ette. She stands quiet and majestic in a great 

oom, with a soft, unchanging, lazy smile upon her 

ace, reigning like a queen over many subjects, as 

old and silent and colorless as she, but far less 

ovely. People who love beauty travel from all 

larts of the world, far and near, to look upon her; 

>ut from out this crowd of gazers no fairy-favored 

prince has ever stepped to give her that magic kiss 

vhich would start the blushes into the pale face 

ind set the fair limbs free from the sleep which has 

aound them through the coming and going of. 


But I can beguile you no longer with this sem- 
blance of an old fairy tale. My " Sleeping Beauty " 
will never stir ; she is imprisoned in a block of de- 
faced and discolored marble ; my beautiful woman 
is only an antique statue, miraculously preserved 
for us from the days when the Greeks were masters 
of the world, and of all arts and knowledge as well. 
This statue has been named "Venus of Milo." 
"Venus," because it is supposed to represent the 
Greek goddess Venus, and "of Milo," because it 
was found in a garden on the island of Melos, one 
of the many islands in the Grecian Archipelago. 

The garden was probably part of the pleasure- 
grounds of a wealthy Greek. In the midst, on a 
little hill, he built his house of marble, and from 
the wide open porticoes around it on every side, he 
looked abroad upon terraces, fountains, marble 

pavements and statues ; upon green waving fields, 
long avenues of orange and lemon-trees laden with 
blossoms and fruit, filling the air with sweet odor, 
vines clustering on the sunny slopes, and the red 
grapes. In the distance he saw the purple sea for- 
ever curving and swelling around countless islands 
set like jewels in its bosom ; he watched the ships 
dipping and rising before the light wind, stopping 
at this port, then at that ; here unloading, there 
taking on their cargoes of sweet nuts, figs and wine. 
Farther beyond still was Athens itself, and the 
Acropolis shining white and sharp through the 
clear, luminous atmosphere, against the blue sky. 

But these rare sights passed away ; invasion and 
war left only a few broken shafts and columns ; 
the beautiful vineyards ran to waste, the fount- 
ains were choked up, the statues crumbled or were 
carried off by the Turks in their many incursions 
into Greece and its islands. The garden lay thus 
despoiled and neglected for many years, till, in 
1825, the owner of a bit of it began to clear a hill- 
side for the planting of a vineyard. At the foot of 
the hill he chanced to strike his shovel against this 
statue of a woman. It was imbedded in the earth, 
and had been entirely covered up by the crumbling 
and washing down of the soil above, and so had 
lain concealed for hundreds of years. 

It was no uncommon thing at that time for work- 
men and peasants to turn up from the dark earth 
vases, trinkets, bits of sculpture, and many frag- 
mentary relics of those ancient Greeks who, centu- 
ries before, lived and wrought so nobly here. To 
the present race these tokens had no value that 
could outweigh the price they would bring in the 
market ; they were too poor to gratify expensive 
tastes, even if they had had them. Besides, they 
had grown out of the old faith, and they gave no 
divinity to the arms and legs and mutilated bodies 
of the gods and demigods with which their fathers 



(November ' ; 

crowded the earth and air and sea. Yet I am sure 
the traditions of his pagan fathers must have 
stirred in the soul of the man who brought back to 
the light of day this matchless figure. 

If he had such emotions at all, however, they 
were happily so slight that he was willing to sell 
the statue to Monsieur Brest, the French Consul, 
who, recognizing the value of the prize, bought it 
for five hundred dollars, and sent immediately for 
a vessel on which it could be shipped to France. 
Before this vessel arrived, the Turkish Government 
heard of the unearthing of the statue and hastily 
dispatched a vessel to bring it away, offering the 
owner five times more than the French price. 

It was not in human nature to resist this. The 
Turks were given possession of the statue, and were 
embarking it on their vessel when the French ship 
arrived on the scene. A dispute and struggle arose, 
and later accounts say that the arms of the Venus, 
which had been detached for safer transportation, 
were seized by the Turks and are still in their pos- 
session. The first account was that the arms were 
gone when the figure was taken from the ground, 
also one foot broken off and several deep scratches 
about the shoulders and drapery. However this 
may be, the arms are still missing, and to this day 
the noble figure stands as you see in the picture. 

It was placed in the Louvre, a magnificent art 
gallery in Paris, and at once called forth the pro- 
foundest admiration from artists and students and 
savans. Each one had some theory regarding the 
action of the figure, which the loss of the arms 
makes it impossible to determine. Some thought 
it was a Venus taking the apple designed " for the 
most beautiful ; " others, that it was Venus em- 
bracing Mars ; others, that it was a Venus coming 
from the bath with hair unbound and gathering 
her drapery around her, or Venus using a polished 
shield for a mirror ; while others argued that it 
was no Venus, but the protecting nymph of the 
island of Melos, or the figure of a Victory resting 
a buckler upon her bended knee and inscribing 
upon it the name of a hero. 

Of the genius who created this figure nothing 
certain is known, in spite of the research and 
skill of students. From the manner of workman- 
ship it is concluded that he came after the time 
of Phidias, — whom you will hear named as the 
father of Greek sculpture. — and belonged to the 
later school of Lysippus, he who, pointing to the 
passers-by, said to his pupils, "There are your 
teachers." But when the Greeks themselves had 
such questions of doubtful authorship to settle they 
said that the statue fell from heaven ; and we may 
be content to decide this question in the same way. 
The man who lived and died two thousand years 
ago is not likely to contradict us to-day. 

IB a 

But the adventures and perils of our fair lady art 
not yet over. During the late war between Franc 
and Germany, when Paris was besieged, and th 
shells were whizzing and flying over the walls, wherli ! 
women gathered their babies in their arms and rarfc' 



shivering through the streets seeking safety, when 
strong men filled the air with shrieks and groans of 
death, then this lifeless, defaced statue was remem- 
bered and protected. It was put into an oaken 
chest, padded and cushioned, and at night a body 
of tried and faithful men bore it to a secret place in 
an underground cellar, known only to themselves. 
I have read furthermore that it was placed in a 



he in an inner wall and built closely around with 
ster and cement, so as to be not only safe from 
rman shells, but hidden from German eyes and 
ids ; for they would not have lost much time in 
.ring away the lovely figure to enrich their own 
lital of Berlin. 

like to think of these brave Frenchmen, so de- 
ed and true to art. I believe they would have 
1 down their lives in this cause, knowing that 
tnce had many other brave men to fill their 
ces, but that in all the world there could never 
un be. such a work as this lovely " Lady of 

ihe lay in the dark and damp, through all the 
k and ruin of those fearful summer days; she 
aped the bursting shells and the communists' 
s, and when the danger was past and men's 
ughts turned again toward beauty and grace 
: was replaced in the Louvre, and stands there 
v as serene and gracious as ever, the most per- 
t type of that pure Greek art which all the world 
dies, but cannot reproduce. 

3o you wonder why ? It would make a very 
g story to give you all the reasons. But one 
:at reason is that our artists and sculptors de- 
tir of finding any living models, either of men or 
men, so noble and natural and simple as those 
ich the Greeks saw around them everywhere. 
r they made it the business of their lives to grow 
ek and blooming : from beautiful children to 
autiful men and women, and so on to a happy, 
;orous old age. 

[n that olden time " a child was taught to read, 
ite and cipher ; to play the lyre and chant the 
tional odes, celebrating brave deeds and great 
tones ; to wrestle and to perform all other bodily 
:rcises." Youths and maidens went daily to the 
mnasium, and there were practiced in running, 
ping, throwing the lance and discus, and in 
;ry other exercise which could make them strong, 
althy and agile. Then the wise were strong 

and the learned beautiful. There were no narrow 
chests and stooped shoulders ; no pale faces and 
blinking eyes from desk and study and school- 
room ; no warped muscles from work-bench and 
loom. Artisans, philosophers, poets, rich and 
poor, went alike through a daily course of training, 
ate sparingly, and lived through all seasons in the 
open air. " For there is no winter in this land. 
Evergreen oaks, the olive, the lemon, the orange 
and cypress form in the valleys and on the hillsides 
an eternal summer landscape ; they even extend 
down to the margin of the sea, and in February, at 
certain places, oranges drop from their stems and 
fall into the water." In this mild and balmy at- 
mosphere they required scant clothing and light 
diet. They had neither cold nor heat to guard 
against ; the kindly fruits of the earth were all they 
needed to keep them in health and courage. 

Now look carefully at the picture of the Venus, . 
always remembering that it is a copy from a plaster 
cast, a copy of a copy, and therefore imperfect. It 
will serve only to introduce you to the statue ; then 
if you are in New York, Philadelphia or Boston, go 
to the Academy of Fine Arts and see the life-size 
cast. You will hardly like it at first, but look more 
than once ; study it ; insist upon liking it ; for by 
your admiration of this you may measure your 
power to appreciate any other work of true art. 
Venus stands, you see, simply and easily, without 
affectation or weariness. If she could come out of 
that marble stillness and walk across the room you 
would know what is meant by the " poetry of 
motion." 1 saw it the other day in an Indian 
woman. She was wrapped close in a dingy, dirty 
red blanket, and her face showed nothing but 
brutal, low instincts, but she walked through the 
staring crowds on the streets with such dignity and 
directness, such an erect and pliant figure, such a 
full and perfect play of muscles that I said to my- 
self, " So the Venus of Milo would walk if she were 
wakened from her long sleep in the marble." 

Voi. II.— 4. 


[NoVliMBE J 


By Jas. C. Beard. 



Of the tribe of animals to which the strange rabbit and the pig. It has a long, irre 

creature represented in the accompanying illustra- short limbs, ending in large flat feet 

tions belongs, none have traveled so far or seen so which the whole bulk of the animal tape 

much of the great world as this particular one, to a point ; and enormous claws. 

gular head 

a tail, ? 

rs graduall 

IL . 





1 y 




mm >3mg^gi 


whose portrait was taken for St. NICHOLAS while 
it was on a temporary visit to Central Park. 

Even the great Zoological Garden in London, 
which forms the largest collection of living animals 
in the world, does not contain a specimen. In fact, 
it is very difficult to capture this animal alive, as it 
is extremely timid and wary, and with its great 
claws can burrow out of sight in a few minutes. Its 
home is in Africa, and its name Aard-vark, which 
means earth-pig. At first sight, its singular form 
seems a sort of compromise between that of the 

Along the wide stretches of sand in Africa ar 
to be seen great mounds, very similar in shape an 
appearance to the huts of the black men, but muc 
more strongly built, consisting of mud which hi 
hardened almost into stone in the heat of the sur 

These buildings, which are far superior to th ( 
houses constructed by the human beings who pe< 
pie the country, are erected by small insects calle 
termites, or white ants, and are, in proportion t 
their builders, larger than any edifice ever cor 
structed by man. 



In this region, as evening advances, numerous 

althy creatures, never seen by day, creep forth 

m their hiding-places in the jungle in search of 

)d, and among them are the Aard-varks ; their 

ig snouts projected in every direc- 

n, their brilliant black eyes wide 

en and their great ears thrown 

•ward on the alert. 

If the coast is clear, an animal of 

s kind — perhaps a mamma, fol- 

ved by a couple of the queerest 

:Ie babies imaginable — makes her 

y up to the nearest ant-hill, and, 

ting upon her haunches, tears it 

pieces without loss of time, break- 

1 up the stony walls with perfect 
se, and bringing dismay and death 
the inmates, to whom, instead of 
; timid creature she appears to 
, she is a terrible, devouring mon- 
:r. So rapidly does she sweep 

2 insects into her mouth by the 
ift movement of her long tongue, 
lich is covered with a thick, sticky 
bstance to which the ants adhere, 
at soon, of all the bewildered 
altitude which filled that great 
3und, not one is left to behold and 
aurn over the destruction of its 
tie world. 
There are animals closely 'related 
the Aard-vark, which are covered 

th large horny scales instead of hair; and which, 
sides indulging in other strange habits, generally 

sleep rolled up in the shape of a ball. But the 
Aard-vark, in endeavoring to follow so laudable a 
custom, only succeeds in standing on the top of its 
head, in which position it seems to sleep very com- 


fortably — so comfortably, indeed, that it afforded, 
as you see, a capital chance for a second portrait. 


By Maria W. Jones. 

All at once, right in the middle of the night, 
artha wakened wide up. And no wonder, for 
e bed-clothes were drawn up over her face so that 
e could hardly breathe. She threw her arm over 
i Lucy's pillow, but instead of the curly head 
ere was only a big round ball, made by that same 
rly head having the covering all tightly pulled 
) over and drawn down under it. The instant 
artha's hand touched the big round ball, it 
rieked out, " O ! O ! " as if somebody had taken 
for a foot-ball and given it a kick. 
Then Martha sat up and commenced vigorously 
tiling the sheet and counterpane away from the 

little clinging hands that were holding them down 
so tightly, exclaiming as she tugged and pulled : 

"Why, Lucy, what is the matter? What liave 
you got your head all rolled up this way for ? You 
almost smothered us !" 

"O Martha!" piped the little girl's trembling 
voice, as she cuddled closer to her sister, " I am so 
glad you 're awake. But don't speak so loud ; 
there 's something in the room !" And down went 
the little head under the covers again, and the little 
hands, by this time clinging around Martha's neck, 
pulled her head under too, while Lucy continued 
in an awful whisper : • 



[November; ' 

" I thought, when I felt your hand, that it had 
flopped right down on my head, and I did n't know 
but that I was going to die right straight off, with- 
out ever bidding anybody good-by, and, oh ! I had 
such dreadful thoughts, all in a flash." 

" Why, Lucy, child," said Martha (Martha was 
eleven years old, and Lucy was ten), " you have 
been having bad dreams. Why did n't you call me ?" 

"I was afraid it would hear," she whispered 
back. " Please, Martha, don't speak so loud. In- 
deed there is something in the room." 

" Of course," said Martha, sitting up in bed 
again and speaking louder than ever, "of course, 
we are here." 

"Oh, don't, Martha; do lie down," entreated 
poor Lucy, almost beside herself with terror. " I 've 
been watching it ever so long, and it gets bigger 
and bigger. It 's just down there in the corner of 
the room, near the foot of the bed." 

" Where ? " said Martha, anxiously, opening her 
eyes wide and straining them hard to see in the 
faint moonlight. 

" Down there ; I dare n't look again. Last time 
it seemed like it nodded to me and got nearer this 
way. " 

"Lucy Brown, I don't see one single solitary 
thing that I have n't seen a hundred times before," 
said Martha, in loud emphatic tones. And her 
voice was so hearty, and her manner so fearless, that 
Lucy herself began to feel differently and less afraid 
of the terrible something, which she somehow still 
thought must be there, and which it seemed very 
strange to her that Martha could not see. 

Once more she whispered, half interrogatively : 

"Something tall and dark, with a white head," 
and then, in a sudden burst of confidence, " O 
Martha, I think — I thought — I didn't know, but 
may be it was a ghost." 


"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Martha, loud enough 
and merrily enough to have made a ghost itself 
laugh, if there ever could possibly be such a thing; 
but as there was not, nor could not be, the laugh 
did some good, anyway, as every honest and merry = 
laugh always does. 

It put to rout Lucy's shadowy fears, and brought 
her sitting bolt upright in bed, but not by the side 
of Martha, for that merry little girl was flitting 
around the room, touching first one object and 
then another, shouting out, "Am I hot or cold?" 
in a vain attempt to find the ghost. 

Lucy actually laughed aloud at this new way and 
time for playing "hot butter-beans please to come 
to supper," and it was not long after that that she 
grew so bold as to herself run up to the ghost and 
take off its white head, which, after all, was nothing 
but her own little white sailor-waist hanging upon 
the high back of an arm-chair. So that put an end 
to the ghost. But a new fear rose — Martha would 
tell "the boys," and she'd "never hear the last 
of it." 

But Martha promised she would do no such 
dreadful thing ; so Lucy in turn was very ready to 
promise that she would never be so foolish again, 
and to declare she knew that there were no sucli 
things as ghosts, and that if there were, they 
could n't possibly want anything from her, and thai 
the very next time and every time she was fright 
ened she would not wait a minute, nor half of a 
minute, but march right up and see what it was. 
And she always has kept her promise. To this 
day she has never found a ghost, — for a very good I 
reason, which I am sure you will think of, — nor % 
has she ever found a trouble of any kind that did I! 
not either disappear altogether or grow considerably 
smaller when she "marched right up to it" and 
saw what it really was. 


By Alice Donlevy. 

The Doll. 
The favorite playthings among East Indian girls 
are their dolls, which, although very different from 
any dolls made or sold in our country, are very 
precious to their owners. The East Indian dolls are 
made of light wood, painted in various colors, and 
they all look like our picture, varying only in size; 
the smallest is six inches, the largest two or three 
feet high. They are not jointed, and their little 

Indian mothers cannot dress and undress them, or 
have the fun of making their clothes. The only 
thing that will "come off" is the head, which is 
secured by a peg fitting into a hole in the body 
The feet are firmly fastened to a wooden stand and 
to the solid body of the doll. 

Perhaps some of you children may like to make 
these East Indian dollies as curious Christmas gifts 
for your young friends. It will not be difficult to 




.' some one, with this picture at hand for a model, 
, cut the form for you out of soft wood, if you 
,inot do it yourselves; and for the rest you have 
jjty to paint the forms with bright colors (as I 
Jill describe) and to gum on a bit of gilt paper 
•efully here and there, according to directions. 
The baby, or smallest doll, 
has a yellow dress, spotted 
with black, trimmed with a 
blue belt with white spots, 
and bands of red spotted with 
white around the neck and 
sleeves. The border of the 
baby's skirt consists of a nar- 
row blue band spotted with 
white, and edged with yel- 
low-grey, marked by a few 
black lines 

The big doll has heeled 
shoes striped with black, blue 
anklets spotted with white, 
and wears a solid, beautiful 
crimson skirt, ornamented by 
golden stripes and short bars. 
The curving line and leaf- 
pattern in front is also gold. 
On each side of this are two 
stripes of dark blue spotted 
with white ; the border of the 
skirt is the same — blue with 
white spots; the bodice and 
part of the sleeves are of a 
all yellow-grey — the same color as the baby's 
art-border and the doll's shoes and legs. The 
pper part of the dress is dark blue, ornamented 
ith yellow dots, arranged like stars, and trimmed 
ith bands of white spots on red. Her bracelets 
or, like the women of India, she wears many) are 
imson and gold. The tall head-dress is painted 
:llow with black stripes, or blue with white dots, 
id red. Her front hair is ornamented with a gold 
ind, also trimmed with white spots. The long 
lack hair hangs from the back of her head in one 
mg, tapering braid. This is painted on and extends 
alow the waist, which is dotted with white spots 
rranged differently in groups in the center and in 
line at each side of the braid. The face is very 
sculiar, as you see. The ears are crimson and 

gold ; the eyes, eyebrows, eyelashes and the orna- 
ment at the side of her nose is black ; not only are 
her lips red, but the tip of her nose and one of the 
spots between the eyebrows ; the other spot is 
green. One more green spot on her pointed chin 
completes her toilet. 

The Cow. 
The favorite plaything among the boys is the 
elephant, made of all sizes, and looking very 
much like the animals that stand on our toy-shop 
shelves. The boys play feeding their elephants 
with rice, etc., and giving them pails of water, just 
as regularly as some girls sing their dolls to sleep 
and put them to bed. The cow is a very funny 
toy, and comes next to the elephant in popularity. 


All the real cows in India are white ; but the toy 
cows are usually crimson and gold, and dotted 
with yellow — with blue stripes, dotted with white. 
The feet and tail are dashed with black, like the 
eyes and nose. The ears can be taken off, for they 
have little pegs that fit in a hole in the cow's head. 
In both these toys the colors are so arranged that 
the whole effect is pleasing. You can learn from 
these playthings, almost as well as from a thousand- 
dollar shawl, the Oriental rule for color, which is : 
Always separate different colors by lines of white, 
or black, or gold. 

Whether fair, whether foul, 

Be it wet or dry, 
Cloudy-time or shiny-time, 

The sun 's in the sky. 

Gloomy night, sparkle night, 
Be it glad or dread, 

Cloudy-time or shiny-time, 
Stars are overhead. 





HERE we are again, dear young folks, and this 
time on the very threshold of a new volume. 
Good ! We shall be old friends soon. Meantime, 
it 's the same old Jack who speaks to you, though 
the editors say they 've a better picture of me this 
time than they had before. Well, well — whether 
it's the born, living image of me or not, I'll say 
this : I 'm your own faithful, loving, Jack-in-the- 
Pulpit, — <in rain or shine, yours to command, and 
may we honor and help one another to the end ! 

What shall we begin with to-day ? Ah ! I know : 


Dm you ever hear about it, my children ? The 
little bird who told me said he was sure Mr. Trow- 
bridge would n't be willing to have it mentioned, 
but I can't help that. He had no business to do it, 
then. Besides, the boys and girls will forgive him, 
if he is so very much ashamed of it. 

You see, the boy had broken through the ice, 
where the river (the Mystic River, in Connecticut) 
was sixty feet deep and the current fearfully strong. 
Men and boys stood at a safe distance looking on ; 
but what could they do ? The ice would n't hold, 
and there were no boats at hand. Trowbridge — 
"Jack Hazard" Trowbridge — heard the boy's ter- 
rified screams, and ran to the spot. He saw the 
little head bob under, saw it come up again, heard 
one shriek from the poor boy, and that was enough. 
With a couple of light boards torn from an old 
fence, he went out after him. But the ice was 
so thin that it sank beneath him, boards and all. 
The crowd shouted to him to come back ; and he 

But he brought the boy with him, safe and sound, 
and then went home and put on dry clothes. 

The Massachusetts Humane Society awarded Mr. 
Trowbridge a large silver medal for this brave act ; 
but, though he no doubt appreciated their motives 

in doing him this honor, I '11 warrant you the sight 
of that rosy little chap, running about alive and!] 
well, was worth more to him than all the medals in. j 
the world. 


The pretty schoolmistress, in talking to the- 
deacon the other day in our meadow, looked up at 
the cloudy sky and quoted a verse of poetry — some- 
thing about something 

" from scale to scale, 

Mounting amidst the Torricellian tube." 

Now, what did she mean, my children ? Whal 
is a Torricellian tube, and how did any tube ever 
get such a name as that ? 


Did ever you hear of such a tree ? I have, for 
the birds tell me everything. 

The whistling-tree is found in Africa. It is a 
strange-looking object, with branches white as 
chalk. It has long thorns, the inside of which is 
the favorite home of some tiny insect. When this 
creature crawls out to see the world, he of course 
leaves the door open behind him — that is to say, a 
small hole, through which he crawled. Now, the 
wind blowing through the tree when the leaves are 
off, makes a musical noise in these hollow thorns, 
so that it sometimes sounds like thousands of flutes 
playing at once. The natives call it the whistling- 

We 've a whistling-tree in our meadow, but it 
is n't of the African kind. It bears boys, with 
cheeks as red as peaches. I 've heard half-a-dozeh 
of them whistling in it at a time. And they come 
down out of it with their hats full of wild cherries. 


To-night I counted five sorts of gourds that 
I 've heard about. Mock-oranges, bottle-gourds (a 
sort that is turned to many useful purposes, and 
that you country children like to use for play- 
things), summer and winter squashes, and pump- 
kins. Did you ever think when you were tasting 
a nice baked squash or delicious pumpkin pie, that 
squashes and pumpkins were a sort of gourd ? 


The pretty schoolmistress stopped by the stump 
and read a very wonderful thing, one fine day in 
July, to the children who were going with her to 
look for cresses at the brook — so wonderful that 
I 'm going to ask the editors to get the same maga- 
zine and copy the story out for you. The story 
was told by Professor Silliman, and it came to him 
in a private letter from a friend. This friend was; 
part owner of some property on the Oregon coast 
containing a saw-mill which had never been set 
fairly at work. Close by was a dwelling-house for 
the hands, and when they cleared out for lack of 
work, a quantity of things were stored there — tools,, 
packing for the engine, six or seven kegs of large 
spikes, besides, knives, forks, spoons, etc., in the 




>sets, and a great stove in one of the rooms, 
low the editors will please add the rest of the 
jry ; and you, my dears, will please bear in mind 
at the writer is talking about the California wood- 

'This house," he says, "was left uninhabited for two years, and 

ng at some distance from the little settlement, it was frequendy 

>ken into by tramps who sought a shelter for the night. When I 

tered this house I was astonished to see an immense rat's nest on 

: ; empty stove. On examining this nest, which was about five feet 

height, and occupied the whole top of the stove (a large range), I 

ind the outside to be composed entirely of spikes, all laid with sym- 

:try so as to present the points of the nails outward. In the center 

this mass was the nest, composed of finely-divided fibers of the 

mp packing. Interlaced with the spikes, we found the following : 

]out three dozen knives, forks and spoons ; all the butcher-knives, 

ree in number ; a large carving-knife, fork and steel ; several large 

ugs of tobacco ; the outside casing of a silver watch, disposed 

in one part of the pile, the glass of the same watch in another, 

id the works in still another ; an old purse containing some silver, 

atches and tobacco ; nearly all the small tools from the tool-closets, 

nong them several large augers. Altogether, it was a very curious 

ixture of different articles, all of which must have been transported 

ime distance, as they were originally stored in different parts of the 


" The ingenuity and skill displayed in the construction of this nest, 
,bd the curious taste for articles of iron, many of them heavy, for 
'imponent parts, struck me with surprise. The articles of value 
; ere, I think, stolen from the men who had broken into the house for 
[ :mporary lodging. I have preserved a sketch of this iron-clad nest, 

hich I think unique in natural history.' 


i What 's this the bees are buzzing about ? It 
i:an't be true, and yet if my senses did n't deceive 
ne, I heard one of them telling it to the clover 
his very morning. It was quite lost on the clover, 
rle ought to have told it to the Ethiopian Calla in 
.he garden. She would have appreciated it. The 
act is, there 's a rumor that the great African 
desert of Sahara is about to be turned into an 
ocean — that is, not right away, but as soon as mat- 
ters can be settled in regard to it. I don't know 
exactly why they want to do this, but there 's some 
good reason for it, you may depend. The French 
engineers have been holding counsel on the matter, 
and they say the thing can be done. 

Just look into this business, my dears. Ask your 
fathers and mothers about it. Such things don't 
happen every day. 


" It could n't do it, I tell you," said the man. 

He and his companion had been walking briskly 
across my meadow ; now they paused directly in 
front of me. 

" But, my dear fellow," said the other, raising 
his voice, " I ought to know, for it sprang at me — 
don't you understand ? " 

"Yes, yes," answered the "dear fellow," "and 
so I should hardly blame you, my boy, if you 
thought the creature leaped sixty feet in the air 
and came down like a rocket-stick ; but. you see, 
the thing 's impossible ; a rattlesnake never springs 
further than the length of its own body — you may 
bet your life on it. The end of the tail acts as a 
sort of pivot. They lie curled up like a spring, 
with head raised from the center. When the head 
shoots forward to strike, it goes exactly as far as 
the snake's length — no further. I Ye seen 'em 
dozens of times, and poked at 'em with a pole from 

a safe distance. When they 're not disturbed, they 
lie in the sun, limp and amiable as you please ; 
but just touch them, and presto ! comes the rattle, 
the warning and the spring, before you can say 
Jack Rob " 

•• Ned," said the other, shaking his head as they 
passed on, "that's all true enough, but I tell you 
the fellow sprang more than twice his own length 
when he made for me." 

"All right," laughed Ned, silenced but not con- 
vinced, "and I'll warrant you sprang six times 
your own length." 

Now, setting good manners aside, which of these 
two was right ? 


A TRAVELED bird has told me about the Jinnee 
of Eastern mythology. It is a sort of genius, or 
demon, or sprite, among the Mohammedans, and it 
is said to have a transparent body, and to possess the 
power of assuming various forms. 

Not a very pleasant individual to have around, I 
should say ; and yet, now I think of it, it seems to 
me that we have something very like the Jinnee in 
this country. It gets into boys and girls some- 
times, and puts on all sorts of shapes. It has 
various names, I understand, such as Affectation, 
Humbug, Hypocrisy, etc., and people always can 
see through it. Dear me ! I don't like to think of 
this Mohammedan myth being so near home. 
Let 's get rid of it ! Let 's scatter its thin body to 
the four winds ! Let 's all draw a good, honest 
breath, and blow it higher than a kite ! 


The other day, the minister came through the 
meadow. Of course his wife was with him, for they 
take a walk together every day. Nearly always, as 
I have already told the children, they sit down to 
rest on the big stump at the left, and then he gen- 
erally reads her something. This time he took out 
a little scrap of printed paper, and after putting on 
his glasses, said : 

" Here 's an extract from a letter, Sarah, that I 
thought would please you. It was written by Dr. 
Channing in his old age to a dear friend in Eng- 
land — and, do you know, it quite reconciles me to 
growing old ? " 

" Read it, dear," said Mrs. Sarah. 

And he read : 

I rejoice with you in your improved health and spirits. Both of us, 
I suppose, are doomed to find the body more or less a burden to the 
end of our journey. But 1 repine not at the doom. What remains to 
me of strength becomes more precious for what is lost I have lost 
one ear, but was never so alive to sweet sounds as now. My sight is 
so far impaired that the brightness in which nature was revealed to 
me in my youth is dimmed, but I never looked on nature with such 
pure joy as now. My limbs soon tire, but I never felt it such a priv- 
ilege to move about in the open air, under the sky, in sight of uhe 
infinity of creation, as at this moment. I almost think that my simple 
food, eaten by rule, was never relished so veil. I am grateful, then, 
for my earthly tabernacle, though it does creak and shake not a little. 
* * * The habit which I have of looking at what is interest- 
ing and great in human nature has no small influence in brightening 
my life. 

The sun was setting as the minister put up the 
paper; so, nodding cheerily to his wife, he pro- 
posed that they should " move on." 



[November, I v 


{Arranged /or parlor representation by G B. Bartlett.) 

Four tableaux vivants and two pantomimic scenes accompany the 
reading of the piece by a concealed person. 

Characters, Costumes, Etc. 

The Mistress, in neat and tasteful home-dress. 

Kitty, calico skirt, rather short ; loose, short sacque ; sleeves rolled 
up to elbow ; very large, heavy shoes ; apron. 

Fing Wing, short full trousers, white stockings, black short frock, 
very long cue, face stained with ochre, long pointed pasteboard 
toes sewed on to slippers. His finger-nails can be lengthened by 
means of tinted tissue paper pasted on. 

Grocer's Boy, straw hat, trousers rolled up slightly, vest and shirt- 

Table, three chairs, clothes in basket, table-cloth, ironing blanket, 
irons-holder, market-basket, three paper packages, brown paper, 
box, pan, mop, dish of apples, knife, two trays, and a quantity 
of cracked and broken china for the " crash "in scene ii. 
(R stands for right side: L for left side.) 


Och ! don't be talkin'. Is it how-Id on, ye say? An' 
did n't I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke 
entirely, and me wastin' that thin you could clutch me 
wid yer two hands. To think o' me toilin' like a nager 
for the six year I 've been in Ameriky — bad luck to the 

day I iver left the owld counthry ! to be bate by the likes 
o' them ! (faix an' I '11 sit down when I 'm ready, so I 
will, Ann Ryan, an' ye 'd better be listenin' than draw- 
in' your remarks) an' is it mysel', with five good char- 
a'ters from respectable places, would be herdin' wid the 
haythens ? The saints forgive me, but I 'd be buried 
alive sooner 'n put up wid it a day longer. Sure an' I 
was the granehorn not to be lavin' at onct when the 
missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the 
new waiter man which was brought out from Californy. 
" He '11 be here the night," says she, " and Kitty, it's 
meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him, for 
he 's a furriner," says she, a kind o' lookin' off. " Sure 
an it 's little I '11 hinder nor interfare wid him nor any 

other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff, for I minded me i 
how these French waiters, wid their paper collars and I 
brass rings on their fingers, isn't company for no gurril 
brought up dacint and honest. Och! sorra bit I knew 
what was comin' till the missus walked into me kitchen 
smilin', and says, kind o' sheared, .'• Here 's Fing Wing, 
Kitty, an' you'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' 
a little strange." Wid that she shoots the doore, and I, 
misthrusting if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy 
wid his paper collar, looks up and — Howdy fathers ! may 
I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rale hay- 
then Chineser a-grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay- 
box. If you '11 belave me, the crayture was that yeller 
it 'ud sicken- you to see him; and sorra stitch was on i 
him but a black night-gown over his trousers and the 
front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler, and a t 
black tail a-hanging down from it behind, wid his two 
feet stook into the heathenestest shoes you ever set eyes 
on. Oclj ! but I was upstairs afore you could turn 
about, a-givin' the missus warnin', an' only stopt wid 
her by her raisin' me wages two dollars, and playdin' 
wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid hay- 
thins and taitch 'em all in our power — the saints save 
us ! Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, 
Ann Ryan, I could n't be tellin'. Not a blissed thing 
cud I do but he 'd be lookin' on wid his eyes cocked up- 
'ard like two poomp-handles, an' he widdout a speck or 
smitch o' whishkers on him, an' his finger-nails full a 
yard long. But it 's dyin' you 'd be to see the missus 
a-larnin' him, an' he grinnin' an' waggin' his pig-tail 
(which was pieced out long wid some black stoof, the 
haythen chate!) and gettin' into her ways wonderful 
quick, I don't deny, imitatin' that sharp, you 'd be shur- 
prised, and ketchin' an' copyin' things the best of us 
will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't want comin' to the 
knowledge of the family — bad luck to him ! 

Is it ate wid him ? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid 
a haythen an' he a-atin' wid drum-sticks — yes, an' atin' 
dogs an' cats unknownst to me, I warrant you, which it 
is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made 
me that sick I cud die. An' did n't the crayture proffer 
to help me a wake ago come Toosday, an' me a-foldin' 
down me clane clothes for the ironin', an' fill his haythen 
mouth wid water, an' afore I could hinder squirrit it 
through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth, 
and fold it up tight as innercent now as a baby, the dir- 
rity baste ! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd 
be doin' till ye 'd be dishtracted. It 's yersel' knows 
the tinder feet that 's on me since ever I 've bin in this 
counthry. Well, owin' to that, I fell into a way o' slip- 
pin' my shoes off when I 'd be settin' down to pale the 
praities or the likes o' that, and, do ye mind ! that hay- 
thin would do the same thing after me whinivir the mis- 
sus set him to parin' apples or tomaterses. The saints 
in heaven could n't have made him belave he cud kape 
the shoes on him when he 'd be paylin' anything. 

Did I lave fur that ? Faix an' I did n't. Did n't he 
get me into throuble wid my missus, the haythin ? 
You 're aware yersel' how the boondles comin' in from 
the grocery often contains more 'n '11 go into anything 
dacently. So, for that matter I 'd now and then take 
out a sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper 
and put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin' 
blankit the how it cuddent be bodderin' any one. Well, 
what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn the 
missus was a-spakin' pleasant and respec'ful wid me in 
me kitchen when the grocer boy comes in an' stands 

* Originally published in "Etchings" in Seribner's Monthly frr January, 187T. 




nenst her wid his boondles, an' she motions like to 
lg Wing (which I never would call him by that name 
■ any other but just haythin), she motions to him, she 
;s, for to take the boondles an' empty out the sugar 
what not where they belongs. If you '11 belave me, 
n Ryan, what did that blatherin' Chineser do but take 

fc a sup o' sugar, an' a handful o' tay, an' a bit o' chaze 
ht afore the missus, wrap them into bits o' paper, an' 
pacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up 
i the ironin' blankit and pullin' out me box wid a 
>w o' bein' sly to put them in. Och, the Lord forgive 
:, but I clutched it, and the missus savin', " O Kitty ! " 
a way that 'ud cruddle your blood. "He 's a hay- 

t n nager," says I. " I 've found you out," says she. 
"11 arrist him," says I. "It's you ought to be ar- 

ited," says she. " You wont," says I. " I will," says 
e — and so it went till she gave me such sass as I cud- 

vnt take from no lady — an' I give her warnin' an' left 

at instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore. 

Vs the concealed person who reads the above, aloud, goes on with- 
er: interruption, each scene must be arranged in time to allow the 
iitain to rise and fall at the words designated. Of course, these 
|EHes may be varied according to the wit and discretion of the actors 
far as the allowed time will permit; but the following directions, 

;r having been practically tested, are offered as a guide. 

Scene I. (tableau vivant) opens at "Here 's Fing Wing, 
Kitty!''' Mistress stands at center pointing out Fing Wing (r) to 
Kitty, who is washing dishes at table (l). She holds up her hands in 
horror. Closes at " Set eyes on." 

Scene II. opens at "Imitating that sharp,' 7 Kitty enters at L 
with a trayful of crockery, Fing Wing following at a short distance 
behind, laden in the same manner. He imitates her gait as nearly as 
he can, and when she stumbles and drops her china, he does the 
same immediately. Closes at " Bad luck to him." 

Scene III. opens at "And didn't the crayture offer to help." 
Fing Wing at the ironing-table (k), folding down the table-cloths 
"as innocent as a baby." Kitty (l) is watching him with intense 

Scene IV. opens at " Tinder feet." Fing Wing sits on table 
center peeling apples, his feet, from which he has taken off his shoes, 
are in a chair in front of him. Closes at " Paylin' anything." 

Scene V. opens at " Saturday mornin'." The mistress stands at 
center, Kitty at L, with broom; and the action must. be in unison 
with the reading. Enter Grocer's Boy with basket (r). Fing Wing 
enters (L). At a motion from the mistress he takes basket from the 
boy, carries it to table (l of center), and, taking a little very cautiously 
from each paper, wraps up the groceries, which he slyly conceals 
under the blanket after filling " the bit of a box " with them. Kitty 
seizes the box ; a struggle ensues, which the mistress interrupts ; 
both gesticulate according to the text. Then the mistress points to 
the door, through which Kitty, after hurriedly and angrily making 
up her bundles, and seizing her bonnet from a peg and putting it 
on, marches out with great dignity. Fing Wing stands (l) in attitude 
of triumph, with his arms and hands outspread, as the curtain falls. 


c Dr. Holland's beautiful lullaby, in this number of St. Nicholas, 
'printed with the author's permission from the advance sheets ol 

■ ; new book, " The Mistress of the Manse," soon to be published by 
: : ribner, Armstrong & Co., of New York. 

: Oriole." — You and all other young folks are welcome to write 
;the Letter-Box, whether subscribing to St. Nicholas or not. We 
)k upon every boy and girl who can read English, or look at a pict- 
as belonging in some way to St. Nicholas. Yes, you may 
in the army of Bird- defenders, too, provided you are resolved to 
ep the requisite pledge, even though you never expect to buy a 
py of the magazine. 

■ As for printing your letters, that is another thing. One entire 
limber of the magazine scarcely would hold half the letters that come 

us every month. We therefore must, as far as practicable, select 
ose of the most general interest; but we make no distinction be- 
*een the writers who " subscribe " and those who do not. 

1M. C. P. — Your " Return of Spring" might be worse, and it might 
: very much better, without making it specially conspicuous as a 
>etical production. " The Heir at Law" was written by Coleman. 
he " History of England " is Macaulay's only large historical work. 

New York, August 18, 1874. 
To the Editor of St. Nicholas ; Over the signature of " Alde- 
uran," in the September St. Nicholas, I find a very clear and 
implete description of diamond puzzles. But "Aldebaran" errs a 
tie in crediting. His second example was not invented by " Er- 
:stus," but is after the manner of "diamonds" that were in use 
ng before " Ernestus" even thought of that career in which he sub- 
quently won so many admiring disciples. The puzzle in question 
as sent to a contemporary publication, more as a protest against the 
I en prevalent (but incorrect, and what "Aldebaran" calls the simple) 
I ay of making "diamonds" than as any new or original idea. 

" Aldebaran's " third way is original with an equally well-known 
jzzler, " Rusticus," a friend of " Emestus." 

The fourth and best style, the " double-reversible " ("Aldebaran's" 
vn), is certainly very unique and ingenious. 

May I ask the pleasure of his acquaintance. And also may I 
ake your handsome and interesting magazine the medium of re-link- 
g the broken chain of past friendships with all my old puzzle- 
lends ? Please say yes. 

With many cordial wishes for St. Nicholas' welfare, — I remain, 
iurs sincerely, " College." 

Leo C. B. — The novels of which you speak are popular ; but in 
reply to your inquiry whether or not they are good for a boy of four- 
teen to read, we answer, they are not. Their humor is not refined, 
and their atmosphere throughout is feverish. You will be glad to 
find a story by C. A. Stephens, running through this and the Decem- 
ber number of St. Nicholas. 

N. P., who may or may not be bribed by an association of doctors 
and dentists, sends the following recipe for making sugar-candy. His 
excuse is that the result of trying it will be a candy far better, purer, 
cheaper and healthier than that which is often purchased in the stores. 
Our excuse is that it may afford the boys and girls a candy-making 
frolic or two on winter evenings, and enable them practically to taste 
the satisfaction of doing something for themselves. 

Sugar-Candy. — One and a-half cups granulated sugar, one cup of 
water, tea-spoonful of vipegar. Boil gently over a steady fire, without 
stirring, removing the scum which rises. Try it in a cup of cold water 
to see if it becomes brittle as it cools. When this occurs remove it 
from the fire, add the juice of lemon, or any essence to flavor it, and 
pour into buttered pans to cool. Stick into the candy while cooling 
English walnuts, neatly taken from their shell. Roasted raisins, or the 
meat of any kind of nut may be used instead of the English walnuts. 

The candy can be pulled if desired. If stirred while boiling it will 
harden into sugar, like the frosting of cake. 

Lulu Conrad and others, who ask questions concerning Mr. 
Trowbridge, and "want to know just how he looks," will be glad to 
learn that Scribner's Monthly for November contains a portrait of 
their favorite, and a brief account of his fife up to the present day. 

To-day, as you all know, Mr. Trowbridge is writing a grand new 
serial for you, to begin in the January number, while Miss Alcott is 
as busily writing a beautiful serial story, which will also begin with 
the new year. 

Foolscap Paper. 

Harry D . — ''Who shall decide when doctors disagree?" 

Here are various replies to your query in our September Letter-Box : 

Dear Editor: In answer to Harry D "s question, I send the 

following, which I have copied from a book of Anecdotes, compiled 
by Henry Hupfield : 

" Foolscap. — The origin of this term, as applied to a certain size of 




writing-paper, came about in this way : When Oliver Cromwell be- 
came Protector he caused the stamp of the ' Cap of Liberty ' to be 
placed upon the paper used by the Government. Soon after the res- 
toration of Charles II., he— --the king — had occasion to write certain 
dispatches, and some of the Government paper was brought to him. 
On looking at it and discovering the stamp, he said, ' Take it away ; 
I '11 have nothing to do with a fool's cap.' ' 

I have often observed on a certain kind of foolscap a head crowned 
with a "liberty cap," and I think that probably it is much like the 
one mentioned here. H. C. 

Cambridge. September 5, 1874. 

Dear Editor of the St. Nicholas : Harry D. wanted to know 
the meaning and origin of the term " Foolscap Paper." I think I 
can tell htm. 

In Queen Anne's reign, certain duties were imposed on all imported 
paper. Among the various kinds was mentioned the Genoa " fools- 
cap." The word is a corruption of the Italian foglio capo, meaning a 
full-sized sheet of paper. Foglio (leaf) is from the Latin folium. It 
appears in the French as feuille. My information is taken from 
Graham's " Book about Words." Alice M. W. 

Lura Freeman, Minnie Watkins and Carry Melvin send 
substantially the same answer to Harry. 

Editor St. Nicholas: In a very useful book called "Fireside 
Philosophy " may be found the fallowing : 

" It is said that the term ' Foolscap ' is derived from the fact that 
Charles I. granted to certain parties a monopoly of the manufacture 
of paper, and every sheet bore in water-mark the royal arms. But 
the Parliament under Cromwell made jests of this in every conceivable 
manntr, and ordered the royal arms to be removed from the paper and 
the fool's cap and bells substituted. Of course these were removed 
after the Restoration ; but paper of the size of the Parliament journals 
always retained the name of l foolscap.' " — Yours, 

Toledo, O., August 25, 1874. Henry Sherring. 

Worthington C. Ford, Lizzie Laning, Grace Winans, Lydia 
W. C, John W. P., Walter C. Pierce and " Little Pip" agree 
with Henry Sherring; and Louise F. Olmstead explains that "the 
water-mark in paper is produced by wires bent into the shape of the 
required letter or device, and secured to the surface of the mould." 

Now who can tell why it is called a ivater mark ? 

"Nimpo. " — Yes, the publishers of St. Nicholas will put your 
name on their Roll of Honor, if you send them subscribers. They 
consider every boy and girl who helps St. Nicholas now, in the 
early part of its existence, as one of the " Founders of the Magazine. " 

High-School Girls : Bertie L. and Louise L. S.j M. A. F. and 

others who ask for a "good piece to speak in school." — How will this 
true story by T- Bellamy answer your purpose ? We find it in Shel- 
don's Fourth Reader : 

The Light-house. 

A man once built a light-house, 

And he built it on a rock, 
And he boasted it should bear unscathed 

The storm's severest shock ; 
" Of engineers I'll be," quoth he, 
" The proudest and the first; 
There stands my work, and it shall stand — 

The waves may do their worst." 

And stand it did, amid the sea, 

Amid the shifting sand ; 
A fairer work to look upon 

Ne'er came from mortal hand. 
Forth went the word ! the winds arose, 

The waves came thundering on, 
At sundown it was standing — 

The day broke — it was gone ! 

Another engineer then came, 

A wiser, humbler man, 
One who revered his Maker's word, 

And loved His works to scan ; 
He stood before a forest oak, 

And marked its structure well ; 
He saw its slowly tapering height, 

Its bold descending swell. 

He gave it thought, he gathered hope, 

And, like a brave man there, 
Felt it no shame to bow his heart 

In thankfulness and prayer. 
To work he went, and this he graved 

Upon the first-laid stone, 
" Man may build up ; the strength to stand 

Must come from God alone." 

Slow rose the work, but safely slow, 

Firm as the rooted oak ; 
Day after day, storm after storm 

Above that light-house broke : 
At last came one, and seamen said, 

While yet they saw it loom, 
' If it stands this, why, it will stand 

Until the day of doom." 

The storm passed on, long years are gone, 

The engineer sleeps well, 
And still around that light-house tower, 

The eddying billows swell ; 
And many a tar, from many a land, 

Through many a stormy night, 
Still breathes a prayer for him that reared 

That heaven-protected light. 

Nebraska City, August 2, 1874. 

Dear Boy Who Wanted to Know How to Make One : I an 
now prepared to answer your question, "How to Make a Man 
Kite V " I will describe it as given some time ago by our friend Mi 
Haskins in the Hearth and Home. I also send a careful copy of hi 
picture. To make a kite four feet high it takes three sticks, — on 
four feet long, set upright to reach from the bottom of the jacket t 
the top of the hat, and two crossed so as to go from each shoulder L 
the corners below the vest pockets. You then put your string aroum 
the whole by securing it to the ends of these sticks, and the frame i 
made. Now cover with thin cloth, — or paper-muslin is the best,- 
and almost any body will paint an old man's head and body for yo^ 
if you're a little boy. Next make the legs and arms of bunting 
Bunting, you know, is the loosely-woven material that flags are mad 
of, and is very light and open. These legs and arms are open at th' 
place where the hoops on which they are made join the kite, an* 
when up will be filled out with air. His legs should be fastened t 
the bottom of the kite, and his arms at each side. 

Now I guess the boys can make, one for themselves with the he!] 
of this picture. Carlos E. Sweet. 

The answer to Henry Steussi's puzzle was crowded out of the 0c 
tober Letter-Box. It is: The two trains will meet exactly at nooi 
half-way between the two stations. Leonard M. Daggett, Irving W 
James, Edward W. Robinson, E. W. D., F. O. Marsh, R. B. C, D 
P. L. Postell and G. Edmund Waring have answered the puzzle cor 

To Clean Shells. 

Edwin S. Belknap's query, as to how he should polish his shells 
is answered by many readers. Minnie Russell advises him to rul 
them with diluted muriatic acid. " Subscriber " says, " Soak then 
in nitric acid and then rub them with a cloth dipped in the same sub 
stance" (but he warns Edwin that the strong acid is poisonous, am 
is liable to take the skin off of one's fingers). Wilford L. W. give 
the following simple suggestions : 

First boil them in a pot of weak lye, say five minutes. Rinse then 
in cold water; then rub them well with a dry cloth ; afterward polisl 
them with a woolen cloth and emery till they present a glossy ap 

And Milly R. writes: 

St. Nicholas : I read in your September number that Edwin Bel 
knap would like to know how to clean shells. I send you this that 
have copied from an old book : 

" To Polish Shells. — Many species of marine and fresh- watt 
shells are composed of mother-of-pearl, covered with a strong epidei 




lis. When it is wished to exhibit the internal structure of the shells, 
lis epidermis is removed and the outer testaceous coatings polished 
own until the pearly structure becomes visible. It has been a com- 
lon practice to remove the thick epidermis of shells by means of 
trong acids, but this is a very hazardous and tedious mode of opera- 
ion. The best plan is to put the shells into a pan of cold water, with 
. quantity of quick-lime, and boil them from two to four hours, accord- 
tig to the thickness of the epidermis. The shells should be afterward 
;radually cooled, and then some diluted muriatic acid applied care- 
ully to the epidermis, which it will dislodge so that it may he easily 
I leeled off. Two hours are quite sufficient for such shells as the com- 
: non mussel to boil. After this they must be polished with rotten 
, tone and oil, put on a piece of chamois leather, and then rubbed with 
i flannel or nail-brush. After the operation of polishing and washing 
nth acids, a little Florence oil should be rubbed over to bring out the 
' :olorsand destroy the influence of the acid, should any remain on the 
ihell; it also tends to preserve the shell from decay. The muriatic 
icid should be applied to the epidermis by means of a feather, and it 
ihould not be suffered to remain on the outside of the shell for more 
1 han a minute or two, and the greatest care should be used to keep 
:he acid from touching, and consequently destroying, the enameled 
1 surface of the inside; indeed, some persons coat the parts of the shell 
■vhich they wish to preserve from the effects of the acid with bees' - 
tvax. Some>conchologists prefer laying white of egg on the shell with 
i small camels'-hair brush to rubbing them with Florence oil." 

Millv R. 

The following names were crowded out o( the list of translators of 
"Le Singe Favori," given in the October number: May Stirling, 
Margaret Christina Ward, Sally Gantt, Agnes Lyman Pollard, C. H. 
Anderson, Harry Neill, Minnie Pope, M. H. McElroy, Susie Elliott 
and George W. S. Howson. 

" Genevieve " would like to kno 

how the game of Jack-stones 

Mary E. Baldwin, George H. Fuller, Leslie Richardson, 
Robert W., Henry C. S., " High-School Boy " and many others. 
— If it were possible either to print or to answer everything that is 
sent to the Letter-Box, you should find special notes for each of you 
in these pages ; but, as it is, the editor can only thank you for your 
kind, cheering words, and assure you that your various requests shall 
be complied with as far as may be right and practicable. Not a word 
in your kind letters passes unheeded. We wish St. Nicholas could 
double its number of pages ; but, even then, we fear we could hardly 
do full justice to our eager, hearty crowd of girls and boys. 

The Bird-Defenders. 
Hundreds and hundreds of young folks have already joined the St. 
Nicholas army of Bird-defenders, and every day fresh names come 

pouring in. New readers and old, boys and girls all over the land, 
whether subscribers to St. Nicholas or not, are earnestly invited to 
join the ranks. As we do not wish any to pledge themselves to this 
cause without fully understanding it, we refer all who wish further in- 
formation to Mr. Haskins' plea for the birds on p. 72 of St. Nicho- 
las for December, 1S73, and to all back numbers of the Letter-Box. 
Meantime, we heartily welcome the fallowing recruits : 

Trenton, N. J., August 14, 1S74. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Please put my name and that of my little 
brother on your roll of Bird-defenders. We love the birds, and have- 
a pet pigeon who had his wing cut off, ljut is now able again to fly. 
There are many robins and sparrows around our house, and we love 
to watch them and to hear them chirp and sing even if they do waken 
us very early in the morning. My brother's name is Elliott Verne 
Richardson,' and mine is — Your friend, Klyda Richardson. 

Lynchburg, Va., July 31, 1S74 
Dear St. Nicholas : I approve of Mr. Haskins' pledge about the 
wild birds being defended. I have two little sisters, who say they 
will join this army. Fanny and Rosa Marrell are their names. — Your 
friend, Geo. R. Marrell. 

Dear St. Nicholas: Please add these names to the Bird-Defend- 
ers. Long may they wave ! 

Boys. — William H. Terry, George E. Carpenter, Lines Groo, Jock 
Swezy, James Newkirk, Willie L. Cox, David C. Winfield, 
Harry C. Loveland, Eddie Jessup, Eddie Boyd, William H. Bell, 
Charles Winfield, H. Wiggins, Richard Abbot. Robert F. Brown, 
Harry Ogden, Edward Dekay, Lewis Stivers, Juhn Stivers, John 
Cowin, William Mullock, Squire Woodward, Ashabel Prenk, 
Willie Henry, Willie Steveson, George Bull. 

GlRLS. — Fannie P. Cowin, Laura Adams, Jennie Gaudener, Jen- 
nie Duryca, Ella Quick, Fannie Graves, Fannie Beyea, Allie 
Wickham, Mary Rogers, Eva Brett, Pruie March, Flora Palmer, 
Katie Bell, Sadie Banker, Etta Sweet, Emma Miller, Millie Miller, 
Jennie Lord, Muni Wickham, Jessie Harney, Birdie Harney, 
and all the girls in Middletown. 

These names were gathered in two hnurs by me. My name is not 
in this list, but I am a Defender. — Affectionately yours, 

Middletown, Orange Co., N. Y. James B. Cox. 

And here are more names : 

Jake and May Bockee, Clifton B Dare, Arthur L. Raymond, 
Isabel D. Raymond, Helen W. Raymond, Win. F. Raymond, Fred 
G. Raymond, Bertie S. Raymond, Alma G. Raymond, Ethel F. 
Austin, Harry N. Austin, Louie E. Austin, Allie G. Raymond, C. 
Finley Hersman, Emma Wetmore, William H. Wetmore, Hallic H. 
Boardman, Mary Louise Webster, Mary Ella Ritter, C. V. Bunner, 
and Lizzie Laning. 

A great many more new names are in type, 
this month. 

but are crowded out 



I AM composed of thirty-one letters. My 26, 20, 27, 
9, 11, 2, 16, 19 are marks or badges ; my II, 6, iS, 14 is 
a metal ; my 4, 28, 12, 20, 24 is often thrown away, and 
yet it may cost thousands of dollars ; my 15, 13, I, 5» 23 
is a bone ; my 22, 29, 25,8 was a politician of old; my 31, 
2 9> 3°> '7 is a toy ; m y 7> 21, 19, 2 is a color ; my 23, 1, 
7, 10, 3 is an animal. My whole is a proverb. 

A. s. 

A CHILD at play, himself 

A youthful dreamer, idly 

All his powers in labor 

The life of man I 11. B. F. 


I. A consonant. 2. A number. 3. Measures of 
distance. 4. An abyss. 5. A consonant. 


1. Curtail a twist, and leave one of two of the same 
age. 2. Curtail to turn aside, and leave to affirm. 3. 
Curtail a confusion, and leave an infant. 4. Curtail one 
exclamation, and leave another. 5. Curtail unsubstan- 
tial, and leave to ventilate. 6. Curtail custody, and 
leave to contend. 7. Curtail necessity, and leave pale. 
8. Curtail to hazard, and leave a wit. W. H. G. 


Reversed : 1. A consonant. 
4- The point of anything small. 

A snare. 3. A name. 
5. A consonant. 





To each of the first three girls or boys who send the Riddle-Box the right answers to these sixty-three conundrums, before November 15th, 
we will present a bound volume of St. Nicholas. If none answer all correctly, we will send a book to each of the three who send the 
best three sets of answers — a bound volume of St. Nicholas to the one of these three who sends the best set Please write on one side of 
the paper only. Number your answers, and give your full address. Send your answers to " Riddle-Box," St. Nicholas, Scribner & Co.. 
New York. 

All of the following may be found in the above scene : 






Two domestic animals, neither dogs nor sheep. 
Something used for the safety of vessels. 
Two-thirds of a measure in common use. 
What Columbus decided to do when he discovered 

Very short breathings. 
What a doctor should do. 
Something that Robin Hood carried. 
What a photographer should do to his sitter when 

he spoils his picture by moving. 
9. A flat fish. 

10. A money-raising establishment. 

11. Something that is often the best part of an oration. 

12. Something between hitting the mark and missing. 

13. A slang word for boldness. 

14. Something that magpies often do. 

15. A number of small swift-footed animals. 

16. A prominent part of Shakespeare's " Richard III." 

17. Something too often found in children's books. 

18. What I would be if I were in your place. 

19. Something lately abolished in the British navy. 

20. Name of a popular modern novel. 

21. An important part of the proceedings of Congress. 

22. Something always present at a military parade. 

23. A verb involving the idea of plunder. 

24. An island off the coast of Scotland. 

25. Something that every carpenter uses. 

26. Nickname of a famous French general. 

27. The last name of a great jumper. 
2S. Parts of cutting implements. 

29. A president of Harvard University. 

30. Where you come on your return. 

31. What the man did who dined on mutton. 

32. An implement used by shipbuilders. 

33. A lender made famous by a modern English poet. 

34. Something often used as a sleigh-robe. 



Parts of a tree. 

A kind of butter. 


Part of a railway. 

An edible mollusk. 

A delicious fruit. 

Parts of a ship. 

Sacred buildings. 

A ghost. 

A part of every river. 

45. A symbol of royalty. 

46. Part of a clock. 

47. Gamblers. 

48. A number of fish. 

49. Something for dinner. 

50. Scholars and flowers. 

51. A favorite essayist. 

52. A term used in music. 

53. A collection of stories. 

54. A noted American general. 



The diagonals of the square form respectively, a kind 
of sea-fish and a constellation. 

I. A book of the Bible. 2. A mechanical contrivance. 
3. To steal. 4. Love. 5. To recompense. 6. An 
arithmetical term. 7. An aperture. typo. 


I contain only two syllables. Of these, my first im- 
plies plurality ; my second sound health ; and my whole 
is the name of a profligate earl, who was the third con- 
sort of a queen noted alike for her beauty and her mis- 
fortunes. He died insane, and in exile ; and the beauti- 
ful queen, after being queen-consort of one country, and 
reigning sovereign of another, spent nineteen years in 
captivity, and was finally beheaded on the 8th of Feb- 
ruary, 1587. What was the earl's name, and of what 
queen was he the husband ? F. R. F. 

55. A common garden flower. 

56. Part of a carpenter's tool. 

57. A projecting tract of land. 

58. Parts of an American cereal. 

59. A celebrated metaphysical writer. 

60. An instrument used in shooting. 

61. Something often found in a paper 

of needles. 

62. All flesh. 

63. Annanias and Saphira. 


In the days of the immortal George, 
At Lexington and Valley Forge, 

I hung behind. 
But now, in modern feats of arms, 
The swiftest ball brings no alarms ; 
And though my stroke no brother harms,. 

I victory find. 
In fact, the game is up without me 
(That 's one thing curious about me); 
But then, dear reader, it is true 
I venture nowhere without you. 

j. s. STACY. 


The second (and third) omitted word in each sen- 
tence is formed from the first by changing the middle 

I. As came running toward me, I shot him 

through the . 2. In a every of emotion 

disappeared. 3. As he stepped out of the a bul- 
let his . 4. Let us not with our 

temptations. 5. in the sale of fruit is dangerous, 

as soon renders it worthless. 6. Do not so at 

the windows. 7. down your hand and 

the dog. 8. The selections from " Lohengrin," 

at the , did almost me to Wagner's theory 

of music. 9. I gave some of the for break- 
fast. CHARL. 


Riddle. — Thief. 

Enigma. — Chrysanthemum. 

Anagrammatical Blanks — Glade, edge, gale, lagged, glad, 
dale, led, dell, all. 

Rebus No. i. — One ought always with zeal to undertake to im- 
prove, and to form or acquire just and excellent habits. 

Classical Transpositions. — 1. Charon — anchor, 2. Zeus — 
Suez. 3. Typhon — Python. 4. Diana— naiad. 5. Pan — nap. 6. 
Mars — arms. 7. Shade — Hades. 

Decapitated Rhymes — Pirate, irate, rate, ate. 

Syncopations. — 1. They — thy. 2. Rule — rue. 3. Spite — site. 
4. Shaved — saved. 5. Glory — gory. 

Rebus No. 2. — The vacant stare bespeaks a mind unhinged. 

Cross-Word. — Stormy petrel. 

Puzzle. — Ham, Shem, Seth, Heth. 

Musical Transpositions. — 1. Genius — Seguin. 2. Drive — Verdi, 
3. Parepa — appear. 4, Brignoli — broiling. 5. Braham — Brahma. 
6. Haydn — handy. 

Picture Puzzle. - 

Answers to Puzzles in September Number have been received previous to September 18 from Minnie Thomas, Lydia W. Conklin, 
"Typo," A. P. Folwell, C. W. R., Mary S. Morrill, Marshall F. Wyman, Mamie L. Leithead, Willie L. Tiernan, Gertie Bradley, "Guil- 
liam," A. M. K., Thomas P. Sanborn, Valeria F. Penrose, Jessie Foster, Edward W. Robinson, Elvira Reumont, Archie Reumont, Katie 
Brayton, Maria Peckham, Mary E. Turner, M. D. C, Lulie M. French, Charles J. Gayler, Louise F. Olmstead, Wilford L. W., W. D. T., 
Rose Roberts, Bertha E. Saltmarsh, James J. Ormsbee, "Neno and Nimpo," Minnie Watkins, G. E. M., Grace Winans, Alice G. Bull, 
"Subscriber," D. W. Kirk, Minnie T. Allen, Sallie Bush, "Alice," Arthur T. Randall, E. Marshall, Ray F. Dyer, Fannie D. Musgove, 
R. B. C., Willie R. Bruwn, Carrie Melvin, Julia Dean Hunter. 





This is the way they carry the baby in Japan. The 

mother, or older sister, or nurse, holds him on her back, or 

ties him on with straps. They call him " ko," which means 

e »" child or baby. Isn't he fat? 

Almost all the Japanese babies 
are tat and rosy. Somebody 
has called Japan the Paradise 
of Babies. Do you see how 
his hair is cut ? His little head 
is shaved in front, except one 
wide lock, which is "banged." 
His eyes are looking right at 
you. He seems to think : 
" Why, what a funny-looking 
baby you are ! You 're not a 
Japanese ' ko,' are you ?" 



"Oh! oh! my old hens are dead," cried old Mrs. Jolly- 
pole, " and what shall I do ? I shall have no eggs to make 
custard, no eggs to boil for our supper." 

Her little grandson Rey looked up and said, " No eggs; 
but we'll have bread and milk, and that's good, gran'ma." 

"Yes, but eggs are better," said Grandma Jollypole, and 
then she put on her sun-bonnet, to carry some socks she 




iad knitted to Deacon Dean's wife. Little Rey sat in the 
loor-way and watched for her return. A man came along 
vith a wagon-load of hens and roosters in coops. 

" Can you give me a drink ?"■ said the driver to Rey. 

" Yes, sir,' 1 said Rey ; and he brought out a bowlful of 
nilk. The man drank every drop of it, and then he asked, 

" Well, what shall I give you for it? A penny ?'" 

"My gran'ma wants two hens, for hers are dead," said 
Rey. "I'd like the hens 'stead of the penny, though gran'ma 
never takes anything." 

" Well," said the man, " I 'd give you two hens instead 
of the penny, but hens cost a good many pennies. What 
else could you give me for them beside the milk ? ' 

"Well," said Rey, "there's Whitey, the cow." He 
pointed to a white cow eating grass by the wayside. " I 'll 
be solly to have her go away," he said, "because she eats out 
of my hand ; but gran'ma says eggs are better than milk." 

The man laughed, and then set down a coop with two 
nice hens in it at Rey's feet; and he said, "Let's shake 
hands, little man, on our bargain." 

Rey shook hands, and then he went and patted the cow. 




"Good-by, Whitey," he said; "I like you better 'n eggs P 

But the man had mounted his wagon. 

" Wont you take her with you now?" asked Rey. 

(i I '11 come back when I want her," answered the man;| 
and then he drove away. 

It was not long before old Mrs. Jollypole came home. 

" Oh, see !" cried Rey. "A man gave me these two nicel 
hens for the cow, and now you can have eggs, gran'ma ! " 

" What !" cried his grandma, ready to faint at the bad] 
news. But the smiles came back to. her face when she saw| 
Whitey chewing her cud just back of the cottage. 

" He is coming for her when he wants her," said Rey.' 
But the man never came again. 

Ride a cock-horse 
To Banbury Cross, 

To see a fine lady 
Upon a white horse. 

Rings on her ringers, 
And bells on her toes, 

She shall have music 
Wherever she goes. 



Vol. II. 

DECEMBER, 1874. 

No. 2. 

By Eliza Greatorex. 

The world has so long been in the habit of 
peopling mountains, streams, forests and oceans 
with imaginary deities, that it is not surprising that 
even in America we have some of these old ideas. 
Mr. William Cullen Bryant, in one of his charm- 
ing poems, speaks of these as ''faded fancies of an 
elder world. " But they are not so faded, after all, 
and come very naturally to those who have read 
stories of Greek and Roman gods and heroes. 

The delightful ancients, who seem as shadowy 
to us as their own legends, used to fancy that some 
of their deities lived in the streams ; others — called 
"hamadryads" — were snugly shut up in the trunks 
of trees. In the musical gurgle of the waterfall 
they thought they heard the laughter and prattle 
of the naiads ; and when the west wind rustled the 
leaves of the groves, they fancied they heard the 
dryads and hamadryads whispering to each other. 
The voice of the surf on the rocky shores and reefs 
was the roar and bellowings of tritons, who lived in 
the waves and played beneath the keels of ships. 
The shriek of the storm and the howl of the 
mountain blast were supposed to be the voices of 
other gods, who were often heard but never seen. 

It is hard for us, who live in these days of rail- 
roads, steamboats, telegraphs, hard work and prac- 
tical life, to see how it was ever possible for any 
people to hold such simple and childish beliefs. 
But, though we have learned of the true and only 
God who made heaven and earth and all that is 
therein, we like to keep alive the curious old tra- 
ditions of the ancients. They are like the charm- 
ing fairy tales that have come down to us from 
generation to generation. Nobody pretends that 

Vol II.— 5. 

they are true ; but they are very good " make- 

If ever there was a place on earth where the gods 
of the Greeks and Romans may be supposed to 
have lived and had a good time, that place must 
have been in Colorado. Near the foot of the 
famous mountain known as Pike's Peak lies the 
" Garden of the Gods," a glimpse of which is given 
you in our frontispiece. It is a small valley, just 
on the edge of the Rocky Mountains, and is com- 
pletely surrounded by a high perpendicular wall 
of white sandstone. There are two entrances 
through this wonderful wall ; one of them — the 
larger — is called "The Beautiful Gate." It is a 
narrow gap in a mass of rock more than one hun- 
dred feet high. As you enter, you look over a 
valley fenced in on all sides with white sandstone ; 
and, nearly opposite, at the top of a hill, is another 
smaller gateway, half-concealed by a huge rock 
about the size of an ordinary cottage. This mass 
of rock is so balanced on the edge of the slope that 
it looks as if it might jump off and go thundering 
down the hill while you look at it. But it has hung 
there many centuries, and, if you should feel in- 
clined to wait to see it go, you might have to stay 
a great many more centuries before the fun would 

The Garden of the Gods abounds with beautiful 
trees and foliage, and, towering amidst this loveli- 
ness, are some of the most extraordinary, queer 
and fantastic shapes ever made out of rock. Ages 
ago, when this part of the world was in a state of 
terrible commotion, vast layers of rock were forced 
up out of the earth in all sorts of positions. Some 




were vertical, some slanting, and some were criss- 
cross and mixed up generally. Learned men say 
that was the way these layers of sandstone, which 
once were flat, got up edgewise and in all other 
ways. We must take their word for it. There was 
nobody there to see. 

Trees and shrubs, after a time, grew up around, 
and the disturbed earth had peace. Then came 
the mountain winds and the long autumn rains. 
The wind blew the sand against the rocks, which 
are so soft that you could dig holes in them with a 
strong jack-knife. The wearing of the sand and 
wind and water against these stony surfaces carved 
them into all sorts of wild and funny shapes. Ages 
and ages passed away, probably, before these gro- 
tesque sculptures looked as they do now. We can 
imagine how patiently the fingers of the wind must 
have chiseled at the stone, flinging on the water 
and the sand before it gave us such a picture-puzzle 
as this which we show you. One of the figures 
shown below looks like one of the queer pictures 
you sometimes find in odd advertisements, where a 
man's cap makes a face on the back of his head. 
Then, on the left of the same rock is another face, 
the bottom of the cap forming the nose. This 

a truthful sketch of a real scene. These rocks ara 
twenty-five or thirty feet high. Others in the gar 
den are yet higher ; and all are of a soft red, very 
like the color of old bricks. The contrast between 
their rich tints and the green of the foliage is most 
charming. Here and there among the trees rise 
up fantastic shapes like spires, towers and steeples. 
Some of the fanciful names given these are " Monte 
zuma's Cathedral," " Cleopatra's Needle," " Wash- 
ington Monument," " The Cathedral Spires," and 
' "Needle Rock." 

But, of course, the half-human-looking objects 
that gave a name to this curious garden are most 
likely to attract attention. The names by which 
they are known are as fantastic as the shapes them- 
selves. One, a figure of a woman, draped and 
standing mournfully alone, has many names. It 
is called " The Mourning Bride," " The Widow," 
" The Old Maid," and by other titles, any one of 
which may happen to stick to the pathetic figure, 
that might be called " Lot's Wife," only that it is 
a pillar of stone instead of a pillar of salt. Then 
there is a huge water-worn bowlder, that looks for 
all the world like a gigantic frog in the act of get- 
ting ready to jump. You get tired looking at this 

figure might be called Mr. Facing-both-ways, after 
a celebrated character in Bunyan's " Pilgrim's 

But, though this really looks like a picture-puzzle, 
such as you sometimes see in St. Nicholas, it is 

stony frog. He seems just about to leap, but he 
never does. He has been in that position for I 
don't know how many hundred years, and he has 
not jumped yet. 

On one part of the wall, where the white sand- 



6 7 

stone is mixed with red, is a gigantic head of a In fact, almost all of these wonders must be looked 
uffalo. There it rests, — horns, ears, nostrils and at from certain points or their particular likeness is 
11, — glowering down at you, just as if it were a not seen at all. Some of them are like the famous 


petrified mammoth buffalo's head stuck up there 
is a trophy, as the head and antlers of deer are 
sometimes hung up — trophies of the chase. An- 
other singular group is "The Nun and the Seal." 
You will have no difficulty in making out this 
picture ; and, as the seal is peering over the rock 
at the nun, who seems to have been at prayer, this 
group is sometimes called " Interrupted Medita- 
tion." If I may be allowed, I should say it might 
be called " The Height of Impudence." It is about 
fifty feet high. 

This picture, however, shows you something of 
the general character of the wonderful place. The 
ground is thickly dotted with rocks, some of which 
take the most fantastic shapes as they peer up 
through the grass and bushes. One chunk of sand- 
stone, from a little way off, looks precisely like a 
giant's face. The giant's arms are crossed on his 
tremendous stomach ; a tree is growing out of his 
chest, and his enormous legs are stowed away in a 
ledge of rocks near by. You can fancy the squir- 
rels having great larks darting in and out of his 
trousers-legs, if he has any. But, as you approach, 
the giant's nose turns into an Egyptian pyramid. 
What was his chin becomes a toadstool ; his arms 
are only knobs without meaning, and his whole 
figure becomes a confused heap of nothingness. 

" White Horse Ledge," near the White Mountains, 
New Hampshire. People stare and stare at the 
ledge across Conway Valley, utterly unable to 
make out the picture of the white horse*. But, 
some day, when carelessly glancing at the rocky 
face, they see the figure of the horse " as plain as 
day," and wonder very much that they never found 
it before. Nevertheless, in the Garden of the Gods 
all of the shapes are curious and fantastic. Even 
if they bore no likeness to any living thing in the 
earth or in the waters under the earth, we should 
think them very wonderful. 

Not far from the Garden of the Gods is Monu- 
ment Park, an oval-shaped valley, fashioned like a 
basin. The formations are like those of the Garden 
in most respects, and the two groups are often in- 
cluded in the general title of " The Garden of the 
Gods." It would seem as if this name were par- 
ticularly appropriate to the park. Many of the 
rocky shapes look precisely like immense beets, 
turnips or radishes, growing half out of the ground. 
The body of these queer vegetables is of yellowish- 
white sandstone, bulging out in the middle and 
tapering off above, where a reddish-brown layer 
spreads out just like the flat, leafy top of a "ruta- 
baga" turnip. Nothing funnier than these rows 
of mammoth roots can be imagined. We can 




easily fancy that they are growing in the vegetable 
garden of some Brobdignagian gentleman. And 
we almost look about us for the tremendous cal- 
dron that would be necessary to boil such gigantic 

When we look very closely into the formation of 
these shapes, we shall see that they are composed 
of two kinds of stone. They have frail, slender 
bodies and flat heads. Some are pillars supporting 
a slab ; others are gigantic umbrellas, or they re- 
semble nothing but prodigious mushrooms. Here 
and there are pinnacles wearing flat caps, with 
faces underneath them. Holes, worn by the action 
of sand, wind and water, answer very well for eyes; 
and gaping seams look so much like mouths that 
one almost shudders to see how human and how 
awful they look, sitting or standing there and 
solemnly gazing off into space. 

The explanation of this curious freak of nature is 
that the top layer of stone is hard and ferruginous; 
that is to say, it has some iron in it. This enables 
it to withstand the wearing of the rain and wind, 
which gradually carve away the softer cream- 
colored rock below. So, as the slow ages pass, the 
lower stratum wastes and wastes, leaving the flat 
crown high up in the air on top of the frail support 
beneath. Here and there you will see pillars, not 
quite detached from each other, holding up a table 
of stone. Some of them lean over against each 
other ; they have arms and elbows quite human in 
appearance, and, as they are jumbled together, 
they seem like a party of drunken men trying to 
hold up a flat roof or the top of a table. Some of 
these needle-spires are so frail that one is afraid to 
go very near them, lest their top-heavy roofs shall 
come rattling down while one is underneath. But 
they seem to be perfectly balanced, and, like the 
rocks in the Garden of the Gods, though they look 
as if they were just ready to fall, they somehow 
manage to stay. There they have stuck for we 
don't know how many centuries ; and there they 
will be found, no doubt, long after this generation 
of boys and girls has passed away. 

The artist drew these interesting pictures of the 
Garden of the Gods for the readers of St. NICH- 
OLAS while on a visit lately to that valley of won- 
ders ; therefore they may be relied on as exactly 
correct. Not many of our readers may be able to 
go to Colorado and see these sights for themselves ; 
but, next to the pleasure of seeing them with one's 
own eyes, is that of looking at portraits of the curi- 
ous stone images drawn on the spot. 

The Indians have many traditions about these 
singular rock shapes ; and it is not at all surprising 
that they were afraid to go into the enchanted gar- 
den. We can imagine that an ignorant and super- 
stitious people would fancy that these huge images, 

which look so much like heathen gods, were ter-l 
rible creatures. Even white people, looking into 
the garden in a half-cloudy night, might feel rather 
shaky about the knees. The strange figures, seen 
by the misty light, are ghostly and uncanny. If 
they look human by da)-, much more must they 
when the darkness hides part and reveals part. 
You all know how a familiar object puts on a 
strange appearance by night ; a pump becomes a 
giant, and a pile of barrels with an old carpet 
thrown over it looks like some kind of a monster. 
What would it be, do you suppose, to play hide- 

and-seek by moonlight in the Garden of the Gods ? 
It is not surprising, therefore, that people have a 
tradition that this valley was once filled with gob- 
lins who were left here to guard a precious treasure ; 
how a certain magician came at last, with a power- 
ful spell, and turned all the watchers into stone, 
and then carried off the treasure in triumph. And 
the legend goes on to say that, when the lucky 
magician got off with his plunder, he locked it in a 
cavern high up among the mountains, and that the 
genius of the place, missing his treasure, traced it 
to the hiding-place and thundered away in vain at 
the door of the cavern. It is even said that the 
gods, whose garden, filled with stone goblins, has 



6 9 

hus been robbed, come up into the mountains 
very once in awhile and bang away savagely at 
he magician's storehouse. 

But, as we said before, these are what may be 
ailed " faded fancies of an elder world," and we 
teed not believe in them. What people might 
•hink the hammering of the gods up in the mount- 
.ins is probably only the thunder booming among 
he peaks. And it must be confessed that the 
>owers of the air do get into the mountain store- 
louse ; for, after the hammering and booming 
lave been kept up some time, the caverns in the 

clouds are unlocked and down come the floods of 
water that have been stored there for use. 

So, as the years roll on, the rains come in sheets 
and jets. Whirled by the winds, they leap from 
the clouds and mountains. They strike the rocks in 
the valleys below, and, like tools, they cut and 
carve, century after century, shaping strange forms 
and fantastic faces. Thus, while men live and die, 
they sculpture the statues in the Garden of the 
Gods, very much as our characters are formed by 
circumstances and influences of which the rest of 
the world takes little heed. 

By Mary N. Prescott. 

There was once a little girl who did not own a 
doll — Who never had owned one. Just think, what 
a condition for a modern child ! At the same time, 
there were six or eight dolls that she called her 
own, that were hers to all intents and purposes, 
lexcept that she had never held them in her arms, 
mor undressed them and tucked them into bed — 
rthe tasks so precious to little girls. Some of the 
dolls which Prue called her own were magnificent 
creatures, with cheeks as rosy as the dawn, with 
long curling wigs, and eyelids that fell bewitchingly 
over bright eyes ; dolls with trained dresses and 
overskirts, with necklaces and earrings and fans — 
perfect dolls of the period ; and there were others, 
little tots of things in china, which Prue longed to 
put into swaddling clothes and rock in the hollow 
of her hand. 

You will laugh, perhaps, to know that she really 
played dolls with these, and had a name and history 
for each, though her only acquaintance with them 
was through the windows of the various toy-shops 
in the place where she lived. 

Prue was a little chore-girl in a boarding-house ; 
her business was to scour knives, wash dishes, 
answer the bell, and run of errands in hot or 
sloppy weather. She slept in a little dark closet, 
where she never saw the sun rise, though she was 
up early enough, indeed. She had her bread and 
butter and clothes for her services, and probably 
that was quite as much as she earned ; naturally, 
there was nothing about dolls, and the things in 
which little folks delight, in the agreement. Never- 
theless, Prue's real life was passed with her treas- 

ures, though the window-panes between herself 
and them sometimes distorted their lovely feat- 
ures. She never dreamed of complaining, how- 
ever. Every spare moment was devoted to them, 
no matter what the weather. Sometimes she was 
on the spot before the shopkeeper had taken down 
his blinds, and I regret to say that she often met 
with a rebuke for lingering on her errands. 

Sometimes she would speak about her dolls to 
her few companions. 

" And who gave you a doll ? " they would ask. 

" Nobody. I got them my own self. I found 
them ; nobody else has ever played with them 

" Let 's see 'em ! " demanded her listeners. 

And then she would lead her playmates to the 
toy-shops and point out her favorites, and gener- 
ously offer them the rest, and tell them that her 
Curlylocks was always looking out the window, 
because she had a husband at sea. One little girl 
got angry at what she believed to be a trick of 
Prue's to impose upon her. 

"They aren't yours one bit," she cried out; 
" they all belong to the man inside, and it's just 
like stealing to play with other folks' dolls. So 
now ! " 

" No, it can't be stealing," Prue answered, 
thoughtfully. " I never touched one of them ; I 
never took one away. " 

" But you would if you could I" said the other. 
" You covet 'em, and that 's wicked, — the com- 
mandment says so." 

" No," persisted Prue, " I would n't take one if 



[December, 1 

I could — I don't believe I would ! I have n't got 
any place to keep it jn but my closet, and that 's 
too dark ; and she 'd get smutches and grease spots 
down in the kitchen. I guess I 'd great deal rather 
have 'em stay here." 

" I don't believe it ! " answered the other. 

Prue did not forget this conversation ; it made a 
deep impression on her mind, and gave her a sense 
of uneasiness. Every time that she paid a visit to 
her doll-world, she repeated : 

" I would n't take them if I could — would I ? " 

And then she told Curlylocks all about it, and 
how the cook scolded when she broke the handle 
off a cup, and sent her to bed without a candle, 
and how she spilled the pitcher of yeast ; and 
Curlylocks comforted her with her perpetual smile, 
and sympathy seemed to shine out of her two 
beady eyes, like glow-worms in the dark. One of 
Prue's dolls was always going out to parties and 
balls, where they had frosted cake and fiddle- 
music ; that was n't at all remarkable, because she 
was a walking-doll. There was a smaller one in 
pantalets, with a satchel, who went to school, but 
who never got beyond "twice twelve" and words 
of two syllables, her progress being limited by 
Prue's acquirements. All her dolls behaved like 
the people she knew. They were ferruled at school 
and spelled above each other, and played truant ; 
they quarreled and made-up like other children ; 
they went shopping, and caught the measles. 
Whatever Prue had known, or heard of, or read 
about, was enacted in her doll-world. The children 
were naughty, and it was the cook who scolded ; 
they had visits from Santa Claus and fairy god- 
mothers ; they were sent to bed when it was dark 
under the table, or they were allowed to sit up 
half-an-hour after tea, if they would n't ask ques- 
tions ; they sat for their photographs, and they 
took pleasure in all the things which had been 
denied to Prue herself. Sometimes she dreamed 
that they all came trooping up the garret stairs into 
her dark closet, and, instead of being dark any 
longer, the walls and ceiling grew transparent, and 
sunbeams searched it till it was warm as summer. 
Whenever she felt unhappy, she had only to take a 
run to the nearest shop-window and say " good 
morning " to her friends, and their rosy content- 
ment seemed catching, and their unfailing smiles 
warmed her small heart. When she had been a 
little naughty, she confided her sins to them, be- 
cause the cook and the chambermaid failed to 
receive her confidences with kindness so real, and 
one always feels that a fault confessed is half- 

One day, a great happiness and a great misfort- 
une happened to Prue. She was in the thick of a 
chat with Curlylocks, when the shopkeeper deliber- 

ately took the beauty from the window, rolled het 
up in brown paper and gave her to a strange child, 
who toddled out of the store and dropped her on 
the pavement outside. Prue sprang to her rescue. 
Curlylocks was going to leave her for ever and ever, 
but she should have the happiness of embracing 
her — of holding her in her own arms one instant ! 
But Prue hugged Curlylocks so affectionately, with 
the doll's cheek against her own, and the tears 
standing in her eyes, that the strange child began 
to whimper, thinking she had lost her new treasure, 
which brought the shopkeeper out to her help, who 
hastily accused poor Prue of wishing to take what 
did n't belong to her. 

" I was only kissing her good-by," was Prue's 
defense. " I meant to give her right back; it only 
seemed a minute. I never would have taken her 
for my own." 

" You would if you could," said the man, repeat- 
ing the very words that had stung Prue once al- 

She ran home to her dishes and duster, with 
the tears frozen in her eyes, asking herself if it 
was indeed true that she would have kept Curly- 
locks if she could, hardly daring to look into her 
own heart for an answer, wondering if it was really 
stealing a little to play with other people's dolls 
without leave. And with some dim idea in her 
child's mind, for which she had no words, that 
she ought to get over caring for the dolls that 
were n't her own, if, as everybody said, she would 
take them if she could, she bravely bade them all 
good-by one morning, since folks were n't likely to 
" take " the things they did n't care for any longer. 
After that, Prue always looked the other way when 
she passed her favorite trysts, hoping that her dolls 
did n't mind it so much as she did. 

But, one day, when she could bear her solitude 
no longer, she borrowed needle and thread of the 
cook and fashioned herself a rag-baby, stuffed it 
with sawdust and dressed it in her own clothes, — 
which fitted loosely, to be sure, — and cradled it in 
her own bed ; and if it was not as handsome as 
Curlylocks, Prue's closet was too dark to reveal 
the truth. You know there are curious fishes that 
have no eyes, because they live in dark caves where 
eyes are useless ; and perhaps for the same reason 
Prue's rag-baby was without them ; but though it 
was blind and had only a few stitches in the place of 
a nose, yet it was a great comfort to Prue. It was 
something to love, something that never answered 
her ill-humoredly, that never looked at Prue but 
with a smile on its face, — or so Prue fancied. It 
was something upon which she could lavish her 
best; if Duster, the chambermaid, gave her a cast- 
off ribbon, she hastened to adorn her rag-baby with 
the treasure. A bunch of dead violets which had 




:en thrown out of the window, Prue picked up 

id laid as a votive offering upon her baby's bosom. 

ae sang it asleep before she closed her own eyes, 

id waked in the morning with the blissful con- 

:iousness of possession. When things crossed her 

3wnstairs, and the cook scolded and the house- 

;eper threatened, she would steal up to her rag- 

iby and be consoled. They held long talks to- 

sther about what would happen when Prue grew 

p, and the places they would go to see, — only 

rue did all the talking herself, and the baby 

stened. She was the best listener in the world, 

rid that was just what Prue needed. 

One day. Duster discovered the rag-baby, and 

ad a good laugh over it behind Prue's back ; and 

-iking pity, she good-naturedly popped it into the 

!,ag-bag, and put in its place a first cousin of Curly- 

1 )cks which she bought from her own savings. 

But when Prue waked next morning and found her 
child gone, not even the crockery eyes and flaxen 
tresses and rosebud mouth of Curlylocks' first- 
cousin could make up for the rag-baby's familiar 
and beloved ugliness ; and Prue raised such a piti- 
ful hue and cry that Duster was obliged to fish it 
out of the rag-bag. 

" Whatever you can see in such a bundle of saw- 
dust passes me," cried the provoked maid. 

" Oh, Duster," answered Prue, hugging her dar- 
ling, "it is such a comfort to have her again." 

But Curlylocks' first-cousin was by no means to 
be despised. Prue could not help admiring her 
beauty. In fact the little lady smiled so sweetly 
and constantly upon Prue's best baby that soon 
Prue began to take a pride in her, and, as Duster 
often said, " it really did one's heart good to see 
the three together." 


'Translated from the German o_f\V. Hev by Theodore Fay.) 

" Come, Bobby ! School 's open ! Now mind ! Sit up straight. 

Please study your lesson before it 's too late. " 
" Oh ! pray for awhile let these old lessons be ; 

For such a small dog they 're too hard, don't you see ! " 

No, no, Master Bobby ! Begin your work now ; 

If you don't, be assured, you will never know how. 

It 's only the harder the longer you wait ; 

Be a good doggy, Bobby ! Submit to your fate." 

Little Bobby submitted, as not all dogs do — 

(I know some young Bobbies who don't submit, too). 

Thus Bob's education in earnest began ; 

On two legs he soon walked like an elegant man. 

Upright he could sit in a drawing-room chair, — 

Papa's hat on his head, — with a dignified air. 

On his nose he could balance a penny so bright ; 

Toss up, at command, and then catch at a bite. 

He could carry your basket, your letter, your cane ; 
And hold your umbrella (unless it should rain). 
In short, almost everything Bobby could do ; 
It seemed there was nothing but what Bobby knew. 
All this his young master beheld with delight ; 
Could he not himself learn, then, to read and to write ? 
Bob's example to imitate now he began, 
And, in time, became also an elegant man. 


T C H U M P I N . 



(From the Russian of Ivan Bestujev.) 

By C. A. Stephens. 



THE next afternoon the cadets were early on the 
forms, and when Colonel Demidoff entered the 
room, they cried out all together : " Tell us more 
about Tchumpin, the brave Kalmuck lad, and of 
your journey in the Altai ! " And having saluted 
each of them in turn, the officer resumed his nar- 
rative : 

" You will remember we were about crossing the 
Irtish river, which, with the invaluable aid of 
Tchumpin, had been rendered a possible perform- 
ance. Our baggage had been carried over, load 
by load, in the canoe which the brave horse-boy 
had brought to us, and now the animals must be 
taken over. 

" Directly after the noon meal, we formed in a 
circle about the horses, and with our whips and 
shouts drove them, though with difficulty, into the 
stream. As the last one entered the river, little 
Tchumpin plunged in after it, and, seizing hold of 
the animal's tail, climbed upon its back, flourishing 
his whip and yelling at the straggling drove, — for 
some of them were strongly minded to return to 
the bank, and all were carried fast down with the 
current. Indeed, they would many of them have 
been carried over the falls but for their energetic 
driver, who shouted and lashed them relentlessly. 
And so soon as one drifted below him and out of 
reach of his whip, he would slip off the back of the 
one he. was bestriding, and, dropping down with 
the current, seize the delinquent by the tail, mount 
its back, and administer such blows as soon turned 
its head up stream again. In this way he drove 
them all across safely ; though the last landed not 
a hundred yards above the cataract. We now 
crossed in the canoe, and, returning it to its moor- 
ings, resumed our march. But for little Tchumpin 
we should hardly have got over that day, and very 
likely not at all without the loss of some of the 

" But his courage and daring were soon to stand 
us in still better stead. On the second night after 
crossing the Irtish, we camped on the bare plain. 
Save grass and a few dry, shrubby bushes, we had 
no fuel. But the Cossacks collected a large pile of 
the brush, bringing all they could find over a wide 
area about our camp. The evening was slightly 
overcast and very dark and still. Our fire crackling 
was the only sound that broke the silence of the 

desert. We had shot a number of snipe during 
the afternoon, and a very savory supper was at 
length prepared of these birds. The odor from 
the stew we were preparing spread far and wide, 
and, unluckily, attracted noses for which it was not 
intended. While we were sitting about our fire, 
feasting after our exhausting day's march, we 
heard, on a sudden, a distant howling. The Cos- 
sacks instantly started to their feet ; and the boy 
Tchumpin sat motionless, with ear intent to catch 
the sound. 

" It was repeated, though still at a great dis- 

" ' The wolves are abroad, barin,' he said to me 
in a low tone. ' They are on our track. They are 

" The Cossacks cried out in alarm at the same 
moment, that the wolves would devour both us and 
our horses. 

" I at once gave orders to look to their arms and 
charge their guns with ball. At the same moment, 
the little horse-boy, who never needed to be told 
his duty, had run to secure the horses. He brought 
them two by two, and picketed them with their 
halters to the right of the fire, driving the iron 
stakes down firmly into the ground. Then, ere we 
had prepared our arms, he carried brush and kin- 
dled a second camp-fire on the other side of the 
animals, distant about a hundred yards from the 
other. The horses were thus tethered betwixt two 
brightly burning fires, which we hoped would 
frighten the wolves, or at least keep them aloof. 
We had seven muskets, besides my double-barreled 
gun and pistols. Before we had finished these 
preparations, I heard the howls of the rapacious 
brutes, not a verst away ; and in less than five 
minutes we could distinguish the rush of many feet 
as they galloped toward us. They came up within 
a few hundred feet, and gave a long, savage howl, 
at sight of the fire. Even then our stock of brush 
was more than half expended. I told the men to 
let the fires burn low, but hold a fresh supply ready 
to throw on at a moment's notice. Six of the 
Cossacks, with their muskets, were sent to tend the 
fire on the right of the horses. The other, with 
Lieut. Stephanish and the boy Tchumpin, re- 
mained with me about our first fire. 

" Though silent now, we knew that the fierce 
troop was watching us at no great distance ; and, 




3 the fire grew dim, we could make out their 
usky forms and fiery eyes. At length, the blaze 
r ent out. Only the bed of red coals remained, 
n a few minutes, a low snarling began among the 
'olves, and I could see that they were creeping up 
jward us, growling and showing their white fangs. 
1.11 this time the lad stood holding an armful of 
rush, with his keen, inquiring eyes on me, await- 
pg the signal to rekindle the blaze. Seeing that 
t he wolves were gathering in, I determined to give 
t hem a lesson ; and bidding the Lieutenant and 
he Cossack to be ready to shoot as soon as the 
ilaze should disclose the forms of the wolves, I 

they drew near, snarling and snapping their teeth, 
the frightened animals began to plunge and snort 
loudly. Soon they had crossed and tangled their 
long halters one with the other, and several were 
thrown down. Nor would our encouraging words 
in the least reassure them. Shouting to the six 
Cossacks to rekindle their blaze, I bade Tchumpin 
throw on the last of our brush. Then we all fired 
again. Loud, shrilly yelps rose, followed by a 
tremendous outburst of howling, as the wolves 
again ran off. 

" This time their howls were answered at a dis- 
tance by another pack, which soon came rushing 


gave Tchumpin the word. Instantly he tossed on 
the grass and brush, and blew a bright flame. 
Three shots rang out at the same instant, and a 
horrible howling followed. The wolves ran, but 
not very far. We could hear them howling and 
snarling half-a-verst off. The Cossack said that 
they would soon return. As rapidly as possible, 
we recharged our guns. Tchumpin was preparing 
another armful of grass and sticks. There was 
scarcely enough left to make another fire. This 
gave me great anxiety, for none of us dared leave 
the fire to collect more fuel out on the steppe. 

" Those were anxious moments. Soon we heard 
the wolves coming nearer again. This time they 
approached the horses, midway of the fires. As 

up ; and we heard a great snarling and fighting 
between the rival packs. Not long after, they again 
collected on the north side of our camp, and began 
to press closer. We had no more brush, and the 
fire, faint as it was, alone kept them from rushing 
upon our horses. I could plainly discern a long 
line of glaring eye-balls, held close to the ground. 
Our case was becoming desperate.- In their fright, 
the Cossacks began firing without orders, and at 
random. The wolves retired a little, but were 
plainly coming to fear the discharges less and less. 
Tchumpin pulled my sleeve. 

"'If you will let me have the pistols, barin, I 
will fetch more bushes,' he said. 

" 'There are no bushes within less than a fur- 




long,' I replied. 'The wolves would tear you in 
pieces ! ' 

" ' There are no wolves on the south side,' said 
the boy. 

" ' But how do you know that ? ' I objected. 

" ' I see that there are none,' he said. 

" I now perceived, what I previously thought I 
had observed, that this boy's eyes were far sharper 
than those of the rest of us, especially in the night- 
time. But I feared that the wolves would espy 
him and cut off his retreat to the fire ; yet so des- 
perate did our situation become, that a little later I 
gave him my pistols. 

" ' Go,' said I ; ' and may God protect you.' 

" He put the pistols in his belt, and dropping on 
his hands and knees, stole off from the fire, crouch- 
ing close to the earth. To distract the wolves, I 
now fired among them several shots. Some min- 
utes passed. Straggling wolves, I was sure, had 
passed around to the south side of the camp. ' We 
could hear them coursing over the plain. Order- 
ing the men to stand ready to shoot, I waited the 
bold lad's return in great anxiety. 

" ' He is lost,' the Cossacks kept repeating. 

"On a sudden, a pistol-shot cracked at a little 
distance. A howl followed it. Then a second shot 
rang out. Grasping our guns, we ran toward the 
sound, and a few yards off met the boy coming 
back with an enormous armful of brush, and eight 
or ten wolves at his heels ! The volley which we 
poured into them caused them to retreat hastily 
into the darkness. A fresh blaze was kindled, in 
the light of which I saw the brave lad's face aglow 
with excitement and resolution. Catching our ad- 
miring glances, he laughed as gayly as when he had 
swum the parrock. 

Aided by the light, a few better-directed volleys 
dispersed the wolves for the time. But they were 
loath to give up the horses, and, so soon as the 
blaze sank, they came back. Three times during 
that fearful night did the brave little Kalmuck 
creep forth after brush, always in deadly peril, but 
always managing to escape it. But for him we 
should hardly have saved our Horses, and perhaps 
not our own lives. It was only at dawn that the 
ravenous brutes slunk away. It was some satisfac- 
tion to see nine of their number — gaunt, terrible 
creatures — stretched lifeless on the plain about our 
camp. Our bullets had not all gone wild." 

It was not till two afternoons later that Colonel 
Demidoff gained time from his duties to finish the 
story of Tchumpin and of the journey to the great 
lake, Altin Kool. This afternoon, after describing 
to the cadets in detail the processes by which gold 
and silver are mined in the Altai, he related many 

interesting incidents of his tour, and of the singular 
country through which they passed. 

" On one of the steppes to the south of the Ir- 
tish," said he, " we crossed a desert tract which I 
named the ' Land of Spiders.' The only living 
creatures on it for a score of versts, were large, 
brown and black spiders, which are a species of 
Tarantula, and every whit as savage and venomous 
as those of Italy. The ground was covered with 
their webs and smooth round holes. Touch one 
of these webs with the lash of a whip and the 
spider would dart out from its den and fasten its 
fangs in the thong, to which it would cling with 
great tenacity till crushed. The Cossacks were in 
deadly fear of these spiders. Not one of them 
could be induced to dismount. They held the 
opinion that the spiders would spring a yard at one 
bound ; though, in fact, they cannot jump more 
than three or four inches at once. 

" It was here that we witnessed a curious phe- 
nomenon. Near the southern side of this tract we 
passed a herd of many hundred sheep, which be- 
longed to a Kalkas village that we saw at a distance. ! 
What these sheep were so busily feeding upon, as 
we saw them while yet at a distance, was quite in- 
explicable to me. I wondered ; for there was not 
a blade of grass, nor yet any green herb to be seen 
on this whole great plain. The Cossacks could not 
tell me. 

"'What are they eating, Tchumpin?' I called 
out to the boy. 

" ' They eat the spiders, barin,' was his prompt 
answer. I could not credit it. 

" ' Come and show me whether it is really so,' I 
said to him ; and together we rode close to the long 
line of busy feeders. They were, indeed, catching 
and crunching the ugly insects with as great a rel- 
ish as they might have eaten pods of sweet-peas. 
And it was an odd spectacle ; for, as the line of 
sheep advanced and nosed the webs, the pugna- 
cious tarantulas would dart out and strike the lips 
of their destroyers, when they would at once be 
licked up. Nor did the sheep seem in the least to 
mind the bites of the spiders, which are so fatal to 
man. Not a living tarantula did the herd leave be- 
hind it. So cleanly was the work done that the 
herdsmen were seen walking without precaution in 
the rear of the devouring line. 

" It seemed a novel and not very proper food for 
sheep. Seeing my look of disgust, the sharp- 
witted lad guessed my thoughts. 

" ' You loathe the spiders, barin,' he exclaimed. 
' But the sheep eat them and you eat the sheep.' 
And he fell to laughing so heartily that I could not 
help joining him in his too true jest. After this, 
whenever we had obtained a sheep of the Kalkas, 
Tchumpin never forgot to call it spider-mutton. 




j "Two days beyond this plain, we crossed an el- 
■ated steppe, or plateau, and passed many great 
irrows, or tumuli, which are thought to be the 
mbs of ancient kings or heroes. Some of these 
■e of enormous size and resemble hills in magni- 
:de. I measured one which was three hundred 
;id sixty-one feet in diameter and forty-seven feet 
gh. The Kalkas and Kirgis tribes now living in 
ie country know nothing of the origin of these 
,ounds. They are the work of a people who lived 
id passed away thousands of years ago. The 



'ossacks say that they are the work of demons, 
•iha built them as altars, upon which to sacrifice 
o their master, Satan. 

" Descending from this plateau, we crossed a low 
;>lain where there were numerous morasses and 
mall lakes, the waters of which were salt and 
ometimes exceedingly bitter. This plain was not 
ess than a hundred versts in width, and covered in 
nany places with a thick growth of high reeds, 
hrough which we had no light task to force our 
fay and keep our course. Here were the lairs of 
nany wild boars, some of which were very fierce 
-nd dangerous. Often we would hear them dash- 
ng through the thickets with loud grunts, either 
tartled suddenly by our approach or in chase after 
ivals. Through these reedy tracts we most fre- 
niently rode in single file, the baggage animals in 
'ear of the party, with little Tchumpin mounted on 
he hindermost to drive them on. 

" On the second day we were startled by his 
ihouts from behind. So thick was the jungle that 
ve could see nothing of him; and it was not at 
>nce that our horses could be turned, or make 
heir way back ; but we could hear that a great 
:ommotion was going on ; and a moment later a 

terrible cry from one of the horses made my blood 
run chill. Putting spurs to my steed I crashed 
through the reeds and saw the boy on the ground, 
shouting and belaboring a huge boar that had 
thrown down one of the horses and was ripping 
open the poor animal's body with its fearful tusks. 
To draw one of my pistols and shoot the boar was 
the work of an instant ; but as the savage creature 
felt the ball it dashed at the boy, and but for his 
marvelous agility in leaping aside it would have 
torn his body open. One of the Cossacks from be- 
hind me fired at almost the same second, and the 
boar fell with a bullet through its spine. It was 
a very large one. Its tusks were the size of a 
man's fingers, and strong and sharp as daggers. 
The horse lay weltering in its blood. The poor 
creature was fatally wounded ; and out of mercy 
we at once killed it. The boar had rushed out of 
the reeds beside the trail without warning ; and 
though the boy had instantly run to the rescue of 
the horse, yet his whip was of little avail against so 
formidable a foe. 

"After this adventure, I determined to arm the 
lad with a musket. Great was his delight at being 
thus honored. A few hints as to the proper man- 
ner of loading it and of getting sight were all- 
sufficient with him ; and I soon discovered, at the 
evening target-practice, that he was as good a shot 
as any of my Cossack soldiers. He shot at every 
boar his keen eyes discovered. On one occasion, 
he came past us at a gallop, in full pursuit of a large 
grizzled fellow, which was coursing along at great 
speed, scattering the foam-clots from its tusks. 
There was a lake near by. The boar was making 
for it. As the creature emerged on the sandy shore, 
Tchumpin fired over his horse's head, while riding 
at a headlong pace. The boar fell, and the horse 
leaped over its body ; but the beast was wounded 
merely, and immediately scrambled to its feet and 
charged after the horse, clashing its tusks. It was 
now Tchumpin's turn to run, if he would save the 
horse's life and perhaps his own. Away they went 
along the water, the boar at the horse's heels, the 
boy glancing sharply backward over his shoulder as 
he galloped on. Presently a lucky thought seemed 
to occur to him. Tugging sharply at the rein, he 
turned the horse into the lake, with a great splash. 
The water was not very deep. The horse took 
several strides without losing his footing. Not so 
with the boar, which, after floundering for a mo- 
ment out of its depth, beat a hasty retreat to the 
bank, where it stood whetting its tusks and cast- 
ing up the earth. Seeing this, the lad pulled up, 
and, standing with the water about the horse's 
sides, coolly reloaded his gun, and taking careful 
aim, lodged his bullet in the boar's head just above 
its left eye. The creature fell with scarcely a kick. 

7 6 



" This reedy tract contained still other and 
more dangerous beasts. That same night, follow- 
ing Tchumpin's wild boar hunt, the horses started, 
violently snorting and plunging ; and the Cossack 
on guard fired, rousing us all in an instant. The 
sentinel shouted that a tiger was near, and, seizing 
another musket, fired again into the darkness. 
Tigers do not unfrequently find their way into the 
Altai region from the jungles farther southward ; 
yet I was much inclined to believe it a false alarm,, 
though the fellow protested that he had seen a pair 
of fiery eyeballs glaring at him from out the depths 
of the thicket. The next morning, however, we 
found that some large animal had crept up, crush- 
ing the grass to within a dozen paces of where the 
outer horses were picketed. 

" While eating our breakfast, a loud squealing 
was heard at the distance of a verst or more, which 
continued for some minutes ; there was trouble 
among the wild boars. One of the Cossacks 
mounted, and, taking his musket, rode off to re- 
connoiter. He presently returned, saying that he 
had seen a bloody sight, and bade us follow him. 
Leaving four of the men to break up camp and 
saddle the baggage-horses, we mounted and rode 
after the Cossack to a place where the reeds were 
trampled down for a space of many rods around, 
and the soft black earth was seen to be covered 
with footprints and with gore, showing that a ter- 
rible conflict had taken place here. I at first be- 
lieved that a couple of rival boars, or herds, had 
been fighting ; but the Cossack pointed to certain 
large tracks, showing marks of claws, clearly cut 
in the mire. It was a tiger's foot ! The boar had 
been killed and carried off; for, on looking about, 
we discovered the crimson trail where the fierce 
conqueror had dragged away its victim. This trail 
led toward a thicket of high, dank reeds, into which 
the tiger had carried its prey. A well-trodden 
path, or reedy tunnel, formed the approach to this 
lair, which was about a yard in width by four feet 
high, thickly matted over in an arch. 

" The men drew back. They knew the tiger 
was in its den, at this very moment, perhaps, de- 
vouring its morning meal. None cared to disturb 
him at his bloody repast. 

" The boy Tchumpin had followed after us. He 
approached nearer to the mouth of the lair than I 
wished to see him, peering wistfully into the dark 
hole, holding his musket cocked and half-raised ; 
then, drawing back, he remarked to Lieut. Ste- 
phanish, that if he would lend him his sheath- 
knife he would ' take a look in there. ' 

" I at once called him away. I had no doubt 
that, at a word of encouragement, he would be 
quite ready to expose his life. 

" On the 13th of June (O. S. ) we arrived at Lake 

: an 




Altin Kool, on the waters and shores of which 
spent seven weeks. In all the Russias, and pe '•'■ 
haps in all the world, there is no more singular la 
than this. It is surrounded by lofty and picturesqu 
mountains ; and its shores are in great part pe: 
pendicular precipices, six and seven hundred fei 
in height, without a ledge to which a wrecked boa 
man might cling. These cliffs are of light blu 
and purplish slate-stone. A little back from thi 
shores tremendous peaks and crags rise two, threq 
and even four thousand feet in height. The dept. 
of the lake is correspondingly great ; two thousan 
feet of line failed in many places to touch bottom 
Large streams fall into it from the cliffs at a singl) tu 
plunge. Indeed, I can wish none of you who hav i 
eyes for the beautiful in nature better fortune than 
at some future time, to be attached to an expeditioi 
to this beautiful lake. 

"Once afloat on its waters, in the native lo; 
canoes, we found but few beaches where we couk 
land ; and this circumstance, in consideration 
the terrific storms which suddenly rush across thi 
lake, renders boating not a little perilous. It wa 
while coasting the eastern shore that the quid 
ear of our trusty little horse-boy stood us in gooc 

" It was about three o'clock in the afternoon 
We had just passed a short stretch of sand-beach, 
lying at the foot of the shore-cliffs, and were distarr 
from it not far from two versts. The whole coasi h 
ahead of us was a perpendicular wall, many hun- 
dred feet in height. Yet we had paddled forward, I 
hoping to reach another landing-place which wc 
knew of, fifteen versts to the northward. The men 
were talking, and in one of the canoes they were 
singing boat-songs. Quite on a sudden, little 
Tchumpin caught my arm. 

" ' Listen, barin ! ' he whispered. 

" I could hear nothing. 

"' Do you not hear it ?' he exclaimed. 'It roars 
It is coming ! ' 

" ' What is coming ? ' I said. 

"'The tornado, barin! For the shore! For 
the shore ! ' 

" I knew that his ear was quicker than mine, and 
instantly gave orders to turn the canoes and row 
for the sand-beach we had passed. The men, who 
feared nothing so much as a gale here, caught the 
alarm and pulled with all their might. We shot 
along at great speed. The boy's face was wrought 
by his anxiety. Presently I heard a low roar, and, 
looking behind us, saw a dark line sweeping down 
the lake. It was the tornado which he had heard 
while yet it was among the mountains on the 
western shore. It was coming like a locomotive in 
full career. Every arm and every nerve was 
strained now to the utmost. The roar behind us 



:w louder each moment. The air near the water 

5 white with the spray and mist. When within 

iiindred yards of the beach, I could see a long, 

lite line of foam coming in our rear with the 

;ed of a race-horse. The men pulled for life, 

d, when the canoe touched the beach, leaped out 

d carried it far back upon the sand. At the 

trie moment, the blast swept us down at full 

igth on the sand, and a great wave rolled almost 

to where we lay. Had we been a minute later, 

proceeded a hundred yards farther on our course, 

should have been overwhelmed. 

i " On our return to Barnaoul I procured admis- 

>>n for Tchumpin to the School of Mines, estab- 

hed there for the education of the Czar's mining 

engineers. I was convinced that the lad would do 
good service for his Majesty in a higher station 
than that of horse-boy. Much of the success of 
my own expedition was really due to him. After- 
ward the boy studied at Ekatgrinsburg, and four 
years later was commissioned in the corps of En- 
gineers. But his tastes led him rather to active 
service in the army proper ; and, as I told you, he 
is now a captain in the Kiev regiment. Nor in the 
recent Khiva campaign did his Majesty possess a 
braver or more efficient officer of cavalry. For 
under the rigid and necessary discipline of our ser- 
vice, the bold and sometimes rash lad has grown 
to be a man of iron, whose steady courage no 
danger can daunt." 

By Ethel C. Gale. 

OUR Western prairies, stretching as far as eye 

1'Ui reach, and covered with tall grass moving with 

wavelike motion in the wind, have often been 

jmpared to seas. But our prairies do not deserve 

le name of seas of grass as well as do the great 

anos, or grass plains, of South America. 

The llanos of Venezuela occupy an area which 

lumboldt estimated at 153,000 square miles — 

space equal to that occupied by the States of 

llaine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, 

Lhode Island, Connecticut, New York and Penn- 

ylvania. These immense plains are as flat as the 

urface of the sea in a calm, and the whole weary 

savel is covered with tall, rank grass. 

We are told that one might travel over this dead 
(lain for over eleven hundred miles, from the delta 
if the Orinoco River to the foot of the Andes 
if Pasto, and not encounter an eminence one foot 
m height. Yet there really is one slight in- 
.•quality. This is called a mesa, and is a gentle 
cnoll swelling very gradually to an elevation of a 
ew yards. This slight elevation, rising so gradu- 
illy that the eye does not perceive it, is the water- 
shed which divides the water that falls during the 
rainy season, sending a part to the south-east to 
feed the Orinoco, and a part to the north-west to 
Feed the streams flowing to the north. 

During the rainy season, from April to the end 
of October, the great seas of grass become seas of 
shallow water. The tropical rains pour down in 
torrents, and the swollen rivers overflow their low 

banks, sending their floods over hundreds of square 
miles of the vast plain. Great numbers of horses 
and cattle, which have not been able to escape to 
the slight elevation of the mesa, or water-shed, are 
drowned. When the waters subside, leaving be- 
hind a rich, fertilizing sediment, the great plains 
become beautiful with the tall, flowering grasses of 
the South American plains, while in the neighbor- 
hood of the rivers a few fan-palm trees wave their 
broad leaves, and delicate mimosas, or sensitive- 
plants, skirt the river shores. 

This is the period during which the llanos deserve 
their name of seas of grass. Later in the season, 
when the thirsty earth and heated air have suc- 
ceeded in drinking up the last remains of the over- 
flow of water, the llanos might be called seas of 
dust, for the grass has been burnt to powder by the 
intense dry heat, and the air is filled with dust 
raised, says Mangim, in his " Desert World," by 
currents caused by local differences of temperature, 
even when there is no wind. The dust thus moved 
in stifling waves is sometimes still farther agitated 
by opposing winds. When these meet, the dust 
and sand are caught up into enormous pillars with 
broad tops spreading out like inverted pyramids, 
which whirl through the hot air like the sand-spouts 
of the Saharan Desert, or the water-spouts of the 

The poor animals, which during the rainy season 
were in such peril of drowning, are now, after a 
short period of happiness, exposed to equal danger 




and worse pain, from the dry waves of dust and an and for awhile, before the floods reach their heigl 

agonizing thirst. How eagerly, then, they listen the vast plains, covered with verdure and furnis 

for the first sounds of the distant thunder, herald- ing food to thousands of happy animals, becon 

ing the welcome, life-restoring rain ' It comes ; again the gently waving seas of grass. 

By A. M. Machar. 

When all the trees were clad in green, 
And all the birds were singing, 

And blossoms full of incense sweet 
Their perfumes forth were flinging, — 

One tree, amid the joyous scene, 
Looked sad and discontented, 

And to the gentle summer breeze 
In whispering tones lamented. 

It murmured to an oriole 

That on a bough was swinging : 
■ Last eventide, in silvery strains, 
I heard a poet singing 

Then, when the dawn had ushered in 

The rosy-fingered morning, 
The tree rejoiced at its array 

In new and strange adorning. 

From every twig and bough there hung 
A sparkling crystal pendant ; 

The proud tree glittered in the sun, 
In jewelry resplendent. 

But with the night there came a wind, 
And with the wind came sorrow ; 

And then, alas ! a piteous case 
Was seen upon the morrow. 

Of trees afar, with jewelled fruit, 
In flashing diamonds shining; 

These green leaves are so commonplace- 
For jewels I am pining ! " 

For when again the morning broke, 
The hapless tree presented 

A sight to warn all other trees 
From being discontented. 

The summer fled; the trees stood bare 

Amid the wintry weather. 
Until one night, when rain and frost 

Came silently together, — 

The ground was strewn with glittering ice ; 

The stately boughs lay under; 
Borne downward by its weight of gems, 

The tree was snapped asunder ! 

5 (■] 



By Harvey Wilder. 

■' Hullo, Joe ! What are you going to do with 
ur gun? " cried Rufus Randolph, as he passed a 
ighbor's house on a wintry day, and saw one of 
; mates preparing to load an old fowling-piece. 
" Come here, and you '11 see," replied Joe, pour- 
r a heavy charge of powder into the barrel, 
len, ramming down a wad, — " See those birds? 
il pepper 'em ! " 

" Why, they 're chickadees ! " said Rufus. " You 
mid n't shoot a chickadee ! They're the dearest 
tie birds ! " 

" But just see what they 're about ! " said Joe, 
th flashing eyes, as he dropped the rattling shot 
to the gun. 

There was a large flock of these merry little creat- 
es on the fruit-trees in Joe's yard, flitting from 
mgh to bough, briskly seeking their food, and 
tering from time to time their cheery " Chickadee- 
■e-dee ! '" Spring was at hand, but snow was still 
l the ground, and the blue-birds had not yet 
'me ; so that the presence of these bright winter 
ngsters, in so numerous a flock, should have de- 
jhted the eye and the heart of any boy. 
But what were they doing ? Joe was not a bad 
dlow, and Rufus could not conceive of his killing 
lese welcome visitors out of mere malice. He 
atched carefully, and saw that they were actually 
:aring open the fruit-buds ! One would alight on 
twig, hanging perhaps head downward, swing a 
toment, put his sharp little bill into a bud, then 
op or dart to another with surprising skill and 
" They 're eating off all the buds, and we sha' n't 
ave a mulberry or a cherry, at this rate ! " said 
oe, putting a cap on his gun. 

Don't shoot!" pleaded Rufus. ''We can 
ighten them away. They may go to our orchard, 
-I don't believe father will care. Why, we feed 
aem around the door every winter, and think so 
luch of the dear little things ! O, there goes 
"ousin Tim ! he '11 know if they do the trees any 

An eager cry brought Cousin Tim to the spot. 
Vhen he saw the birds, and heard what Joe pro- 
losed to do, he looked at him pleasantly, and 
aid : 

" Of course you wish to preserve your trees ; 
hat 's natural." 

" Course, I do ! " said Joe. " I guess the fruit 's 
>f more consequence than the birds." 
" You think they eat the buds ? " 

" I know they do ! You can see them ! " 

" Yes, I see," said Cousin Tim, with a smile ; 
" but, after all, they do not eat the buds." 

"Don't — eat — the buds?" Joe stared. "What 
then do they eat ? " 

" Something in the buds," replied Cousin Tim. 
"Something that would do your trees a great deal 
more harm — a thousand times more harm — than 
the birds do. Every bud the chickadees pick open 
has in it an insect, or the germ of an insect. The 
perfect bud they do not touch. But watch them ; 
it is n't the buds alone they are searching ; see that 
one on the trunk of the tree. He is finding the 
eggs and grubs of insects in the crevices of the bark, 
where you would never think of looking for them. 
Save your trees? Why," cried Cousin Tim, "if 
you wish to destroy your trees, — if you wish to have 
them eaten up with caterpillars and canker-worms, 
and the fruit to be worm-eaten, — then, I say, kill 
off the birds. " 

Joe set the butt of his gun upon the ground, and 
looked bewildered. Rufus was delighted. 

" Yes, it is the birds that preserve our orchards ; 
and the bright little chickadee is among the most 
useful of his kind. Summer and winter he is at 
work for us. Nothing escapes his sharp little eye. 
He peeps under a leaf, and in an instant a cluster 
of eggs, that would have hatched a swarm of nox- 
ious insects, disappears down his throat. You may 
have some cause of complaint against the robin, 
the cherry-bird, the oriole, and some others of their 
tribe, that rob your cherry-trees, strawberry-beds, 
and patches of early peas — though the worst of 
them, I believe, do more good than harm ; but 
don't accuse the chickadee, my boy ; the only 
suspicious thing he does is the destruction of these 
buds, not one of which, probably, would produce 
sound fruit." 

"If that's so, I wont shoot 'em," replied Joe. 
"I kind o' like to see 'em around. They're so 
chipper ! It 's fun to watch 'em in a snow-storm." 

" But what becomes of them in summer ? " Rufus 
asked. " I don't remember seeing much of them 

" No ; it is only in winter that they come much 
about the door. You will often see them in the 
orchard in summer ; then they sing, ' Phebe- 
phebe,'' more plainly than the phebe-bird itself. 
They retire into the woods to lay their eggs and 
raise their little families. Two summers ago I dis- 
covered a chickadee's nest in Beman's Grove." 




" A chickadee's nest ? What did it look like ? " 
inquired Joe, interested. 

" That I can't exactly say ; for I never saw it." 

" Then how did you discover it ? " said Rufus. 

"By seeing a pair of chickadees go into and 
come out of a hole in an old birch-tree. I knew 
they must have a nest in there, and I felt a strong 
curiosity to see it, but I could n't have got at it 
without cutting a bigger hole, and that I could n't 
bear to do. It was only ten or twelve feet from the 
ground, and I climbed up to it. I tried to put my 
hand in, but the hole was too small : so I contented 
myself with blowing into it, and hearing the young 


ones ' peep ' inside, no doubt thinking the old 
birds were coming with food for them. It was very 
much like a woodpecker's hole, made in the soft 
wood of a decayed trunk. 

" The old birds were very much disturbed by my 
presence ; and out of pity to them I slipped to the 
ground, and went to a log a little way off, where I 
sat and watched them. It was some time before 
they ventured to go to their nest ; they seemed to 
be afraid of showing me how to find it. They flew 
all around it, and finally darted near enough, I sup- 
pose, to hear the 'peeping' inside. At last, after 
I had waited a long time, one went in, and was 
gone several minutes, while the other kept guard 

outside. I staid till they got used to seeing rj 
there, and began, I hoped, to regard me as 
friend. Two or three days after, I was there agai 
and on a third visit, I was delighted to see my t\\ 
old birds feeding four young ones on the branch 
a little birch-tree close by their home. They wei 
about two-thirds grown, — just large enough to fi\ 
little, but not to take care of themselves. And 
was beautiful, I assure you, boys, to see the cai 
the old ones took of their darlings. You would i 
have thought those tiny breasts could hold so mm 
tenderness and love. They were constantly flyii 
to and fro, catching worms and caterpillars, brins 
ing them to the branch, and dropping them int 
one of the little upstretched, open, hungry mouth; 
And when one of them attempted to fly, the mothe 
flew with it, darting around and beneath it, as if t 
encourage it, and catch it if it should fall. The ol> 
birds were themselves so small, that this little famil 
scene made a very charming picture, I assure you! 

"Why didn't you take me to see it?" sail 
Rufus. regretfully. 

" Because you were away at the mountains wit] 
your mother." 

" And did n't you ever go there again ? " 

"Yes, two or three weeks afterward — it ma 
have been a month. I was passing near, when 
thought that, seeing the birds were hatched an 
flown, I would try to see what the nest was likt 
So I climbed up to the hole, carefully cut away ; 
little of the soft wood around it with my knife, an 
put in my hand. It was larger inside, and reach 
ing down about two-thirds the length of my fore 
arm, I touched something soft. It was the nest 
made of moss and hair. I was going to take it on 
and examine it, when, to my surprise, I made 

'• What was it? " cried Rufus. 

"That the bottom was half covered with eggs 
there were five of them. As I had never seen ; 
chickadee's egg, I took one out as carefully as 
could; but, I am sorry to say, I broke it in doin; 
so, — not so badly, though, but I could see what ii 
was like. It was nearly round, a little more thai- 
half an inch in diameter, nearly white, with just tlv 
faintest reddish tinge, and little brown spots at th 
larger end. My dear little chickadees, havin; 
given one family a start in life, were going to raise 
a second brood the same season. I trust they did; 
and, boys, I hope you will not kill them." 

Rufus smiled with bright eyes; and as Cousin 
Tim walked off, he could hear Joe mutter in a low 
voice : 

•' Come, Rufe ! let 's go out behind the barn ant 
fire at a mark." 




4 ™ 


By S. S. Colt. 

"/ AM the Greyhound, so slim, you know; 
I came from Asia long, long, ago. 
In Turkey, I 'm called the ' dog of the street ;' 
In Ireland, I the wolf can beat ; 
In Italy, I am a lady's pet ; 
All over the world my race is met." 

" Shaggy, and gaunt, a Deerhound am /, 
Chasing the deer with death in my eye. 
Swift, steady and sure, I follow the trail ; 
I never tire and I never fail. 
To the stately stag no mercy I show. 
And little of friendship with man I know." 

"/ am the Bloodhound, and ma/i is my game 
As the Sleuth-hound of old I won my fame. 
'Twixt England and Scotland I helped keep 

And many a thief have chased o'er the border. 
I am known afar by my deep-toned bay, 
And my terrible race is passing away." 

'/ was born in the Kingdom of Snow; 
For my mistress deathless love I show. 
I 'm wayward, and will bark evermore. 
When friend or foe knocks at the door. 
There 's fire and love in my soft, black eye, 
The white and shaggy Spitz-dog am I." 

; Behold me here — of the Bull-dog race, 
With short, strong jaws and a surly face. 
The mighty bull I venture to fight ; 
And even the lion dreads my bite. 
But, as a breed, we 're not very wise, 
And not much soul looks out of our eves. 

"I am the Newfoundland, trusty and bold ; 
I love the water, and do as I 'm told. 
I am sometimes rough in my bounding play ; 
Please to excuse it— 't is only my way. 
And many a life I 've been known to save 
From the cruel depth of the treach'rous wave.' 

VOL. II. — 6. 




"The Spaniel am /, — in Spain I was found. 
But in every land I have been renowned. 
I am always faithful, docile and wise ; 
I have silken hair and beautiful eyes. 
You may treat me well, or treat me ill, 
While I live, and you live, I '11 love you still. 


" Black and Tan Terrier ! Yes, I am one, 
Bold, handsome and faithful— brimful of fun ! 
A hundred rats lie slain in a day ; 
From earth-retreats I drive out my prey: 
And so it happens, from terra, 'earth,' 
(An old Latin word), my name has birth." 

' • / am the Mastiff — a watch-dog true ; 
Many a noble deed I do. 
In England I'm yellow, — in Europe, white, 
And my bay sounds far through the silent night. 
I 've fought the lion, and conquered the bear ; 
My friends I protect — let my foes beware." 

"My name is Barry, of the St. Bernard; 
When the snows drift deep and the wind blows 

You may hear my bark, and see me flying, 
To guide the lost and rescue the dying ! 
Although I wear no collar of gold, 
All over the world my praise is told." 

"I, the Irish Wolf-dog, next appear, 
With my pointed nose and ears so queer. 
I guard the meek sheep by hills and vales, 
And keep them safe when the wolf assails ; 
As much as the shepherd's dog I know, 
And I'm stronger' far to fight the foe." 

"/ am the Dog of the Esquimaux. — ■ 
I drag their sledges over the snow ; 
I can run and leap — I laugh at the cold ; 
I 'm kind and true, and I 'm strong and bold. 
In ice-bound huts with my masters I dwell ; 
I toil for them, and they love me well." 





By Abby Morton Diaz. 

Mrs. Plummer, holding " Josephus." and Mr. 
ummer and Grandma Plummer and Hiram take 
its in the row and play they are little children, 
e the rest, waiting to hear the story. Hiram, 
metimes called "the growler," sits on a cricket, 
; long legs reaching across a breadth and a-half 
the carpet. Annetta seats herself in front of the 

"Shall I make it up true or ' fictisher ? ' " she 

'Annetta's true stories tell of things which have 

- -ally happened. The " fictishers " are usually one 

lid mass of giants. In fact, her hearers have had 

many and such very monstrous giants lately 

at they can't stand any more, and ask that An- 

?tta shall " make it up true " this time ; though, 

course, what is true can't be made up. 

" Well, if I make it up true," says Annetta, I 

all make it about the Jimmyjohns." (The Jim- 

ies, who are seated together in the row, look very 

liling at this.) "All be very quiet," Annetta 

)es on, " and keep in the row. Mr. Growly must 

)t interrupt so much as he does 'most every time, 

xause it 's every word true. 

" Once there were two little twinnies named the 
mmyjohns ; just as big as each other and just as 
d and just alike. And one day when Joey Moon- 
sam * was going to have a soap-bubble party An- 
;tta (me ; but I must n't say me, you know) 
Jnnetta wanted to make a pudding in her little 
udding-pan, and her mother said she might, 
.nd her mother gave her some grease so it need n't 
ick on, and told how many tea-spoonfuls of sugar 
> take, and milk and cracker and twenty currants, 
ecause currants were smaller than raisins are, and 
ne egg was too many for such a little one, and 
ie could n't think what to tell about that, and Mr. 
rrowly said humming-birds' eggs would be the 
ght size for such a little one, and he asked the 
immyjohns if they would chase some humming- 
irds home and get their eggs, and they said yes. 
Jut he was only funning "with them. And he took 
little red box, with white on top of it, that used 
D be a pill-box, out of Erne's basket — she let him 
-for them to put the eggs in when they found any, 
nd put two white sugar-lumps in the box, and 
heir mother said when they found the eggs they 
ould eat the sugar-lumps up and put the eggs in 

" And first they went behind the syringa bush ; 
nd when one came they said, " Sh ! " and began 

to crawl out ; but Johnny tried to stop a sneeze's 
coming, and so that sneeze made a funny noise in 
his nose and scared it away. 

" And first it went to the sweet peas, and then it 
flew to some wild rose-bushes over the fence, and 
then to some other places. And they chased it 
everywhere it went. And then it flew across a field 
where there was a swamp, and when they came to 
the swamp they could n't find it anywhere. And 
they saw a boy there, and that boy told them may 
be it flew over the hills. Then they went over the 
hills, and it took them a great while. And pretty 
soon there came along a little girl, and her name 
was Minnie Gray ; and she came to pick flowers 
in a basket for another girl that was sick and 
could n't go out-doors to smell the sweet flowers. 
And she asked them where they were going, and 
they said to find humming-birds' eggs for Annetta 
to put in her pudding, because Joey Moonbeam 
was going to have a soap-bubble party. And they 
asked her if she knew where humming-birds laid 
their eggs, and she said she guessed in a lily ; and 
they asked her where any lilies grew, and she said 
in her mother's front-yard ; and they asked her if 
they might go into her mother's front-yard and 
look, and she said they might. Then they went 
over to Minnie Gray's house, and went into her 
mother's front-yard and looked in every one of the 
lilies, but could n't find one. And pretty soon they 
saw the funny man that mends umbrellas, coming 
out of a house with some umbrellas that he had to 
mend, and he asked them where they were going, 
and they said to find some humming-birds' eggs for 
Annetta to put in her pudding that she was going 
to make in her pudding-pan, because Joey Moon- 
beam was going to have a soap-bubble party. And 
they asked him if he knew where to look for them, 
and he said they better climb up in a tree and look. 
Then he went into another house, and then they 
climbed up into Mr. Bumpus's apple-tree and 
looked, and could n't find any ; and Mr. Bumpus's 
shaggy dog came out and barked, and Mr. Bumpus's 
boy drove him away, and a limb broke with Johnny 
and so he fell down and it hurt him and made him 

" And Mr. Bumpus called the dog, and told 
them to never climb up there and break his limbs 
off any more. And then they went along, and 
pretty soon the funny man came out of another 
house, and asked them if they had found any 
humming-birds' eggs, and they said no. Then he 

■ A large rag-baby. 

8 4 



told them butterflies laid theirs on the backs of 
leaves, so they better go look on backs of leaves 
and see if humming-birds did so. So they went 
into a woman's flower-garden and turned some of 
the leaves over and looked on the backs of them, 
and a cross woman came out and told them to be 
off and not be stepping on her flower-roots. And 
the funny man was coming out of a house 'way 'long 
the road, and when they caught up to him he asked 
them if they found any, and they said no. Then 
he laughed, and he told them that mosquitoes stuck 
their eggs together and let them float on the water 
in a bunch together, and they better go over to the 
pond and look there. So they went over, to the 
pond, and he sat down to wait. And they went 
and looked, and came right back again and said 
they did n't see any. Then he told them water- 
spiders laid theirs in water-bubbles under the water, 
and he said they better go back and look again. 
So they went back and paddled in the water, and 
could n't see any eggs in any of the bubbles, and 
got their shoes and stockings very muddy with wet 
mud. And when the)' went back there was another 
man talking with the funny man, and that other 
man told them that ostriches laid eggs in the ground 
for the sun to hatch them out, and they better go 
dig in the ground. The funny man and that other 
man laughed very much ; and they went away after 
that. And then the Jimmies got over a fence into 
a garden, because the ground was very soft there, 
and began to dig in the ground ; and when they 
had dug a great hole a man came up to them and 
scolded at them for digging that hole in his gar- 
den, and he made them dig it back again. And 
I Ye forgot where they went then. Oh, I know 

" Up on the hill ! " cry the Jimmies, both to- 

'• Oh, yes : I know now. Then they went up on 
the hill, and there was a boy up there, and that boy 
told them may be humming-birds had nests in the 
grass, just like ground-sparrows. But they could 
not find one ; and when they were tired of looking 
they sat down on the top of the hill. And by and 
by Mr. Bumpus came along, and his wife, — that 's 
Mrs. Bumpus, — and she asked them if they had 
seen Dan, — that's Dan Bumpus, — and they said 
no. Then she said she and Mr. Bumpus were 
going to a picnic, and Dan was going. And she 
said they were going by the new roadway; and she 
asked them if they would wait there till Dan came, 
and tell Dan to go by the new roadway. And they 
promised to wait and tell Dan. So they waited 
there a very long time, and did n't want to stay 
there any longer ; but they did. so as to tell Dan 
what they said they would. And then it was most 
noon, and Johnny said he was hungry, and Jimmy 

said he was too. The funny man saw them sitting 
up on top of the hill, and he went up softly and got 
behind some bushes when they did n't see him, and 
looked through. And one of them wanted to go 
home, and the other one said, ' 'T wont do. 'cause 
we must tell Dan what we said we would.' So they 
waited ever so long. And the one that had the red 
box took it out and opened it, and both of 'em 
looked in, and one of 'em asked the other one if 
he s'posed their mother would care if they ate up 
the sugar, and the other said mother told them 
they might eat the sugar-lumps when they found 
the eggs ; so they did n't know what to do. And 
while they were looking at it they heard a great 
humming noise in among the bushes. Then thev 
crawled along toward the bushes softly as they 
could to see what was humming there. And they 
did n't see anything at first, so they crawled along 
and peeped round on the other side, and there they 
saw something very strange. They saw an old, 
broken umbrella all spread open, and a green bush 
hanging down from it, and they saw the feet of a 
man under the bush ; and the humming came from 
behind that umbrella. The funny man was behind 
there, humming, but they did n't know it ; and he 
was looking through a hole. And when the}' 
crawled up a little bit nearer to see what made that 
humming noise he turned round so they could not 
see behind that umbrella. And every time they 
crawled another way he turned round so they could 
not see behind that umbrella. And when they 
began to cry, because they felt scared, he took 
down the umbrella, and that made them laugh. 

"The baker was coming along the new road, 
and the funny man stopped him and bought two 
seedcakes of him for the Jimmies. And he told 
them they need n't wait any longer for Dan, for 
Dan had gone by another way, riding in a cart. 
When he came home with the Jimmyjohns, and 
when they got 'most to the barn, they saw me, 
no, I mean saw a little girl named Annetta (but it 
was me, you know), and the funny man put up his 
old umbrella and began to hum ; and he told her 
to hark and hear a great humming-bird hum, and 
that made me — no; made the little girl laugh. 
And she wanted him to keep humming ; and she- 
went in and told the folks to all come out and see a 
great big humming-bird. So the folks came out. 
and he kept moving the old umbrella, so they 
could n't see who was humming behind there. 
And when they tried to get behind him, so as to 
see who was humming there, he went backward 
up against the barn ; but one of them went in the 
barn and poked a stick through a crack and tickled 
his neck, and that made him jump away. Then 
Annetta's father said he knew where there was a 
humming-bird's nest. Then they all went across 



field to some high bushes, and Mr. Plummer 
?ted up the little children so we could look in, and 
oere we saw two very, very, tiny, tiny white eggs, 
3>out as big as little white beans. The Jimmies 
tinted Annetta to take them to put in her pudding, 
it the funny man said they better not. He said 

he read in a story-book that if you ate humming- 
birds' eggs you would have to hum all your life for- 
ever after. And so," said Annetta, looking at the 
row from one end to the other, " the pudding never 
got made in the pudding-pan for Joey Moonbeam's 
soap-bubble party." 


By M. M. 1). 

Whimpy, little Whimpy, 

Cried so much one day, 
His grandma could n't stand it. 

And his mother ran away ; 
His sister climbed the hay-mow, 

His father went to town, 
And cook flew to the neighbor's 

In her shabby kitchen-gown. 


Whimpy, little Whimpy, 

Stood out in the sun, 
And cried until the chickens 

And the ducks began to run; 
Old Towser in his kennel 

Growled in an angry tone, 
Then burst his chain, and Whimpy 

Was left there, all alone. 




Whimpy, little Whimpy, 

Cried and cried and cried. 
Soon the sunlight vanished, 

Flowers began to hide ; 
Birdies stopped their singing, 

Frogs began to croak. 
Darkness came ! and Whimpy 

Found crying was no joke. 

Whimpy, little Whimpy, 

Never '11 forget the day 
When grandma could n't stand it. 

And his mother ran away. 
He was waiting by the window 

When they all came home to tea, 
And a gladder boy than Whimpy 

You never need hope to see. 


By Benjamin E. Woolf. 

Mabel wanted very much to know all about it, 
and that is why she was so vexed that she could 
not get it into her head. If she had not cared for 
it, then it would have been quite another affair ; 
but she did care, and that is where her troubles 
began. She knew she must learn to spell, and 
therefore tried her best to please her governess. 
But Miss Prim was so very thin ; she had such a 
funny row of tight little curls on each side of her 
head ; wore such big silver spectacles on the tip of 
her nose ; and had such a very stiff way of sitting 
upright in her chair, with her lips sticking out, 
as if she was only waiting for a good chance to say 
"Pooh, pooh!" that Mabel felt herself obliged to 
study her governess all the time, instead of her 

Mabel tried to study her spelling lessons very 
hard ; but she grew to be so tired of saying the 
same thing over and over again ; and there was no 
sense in it either. B-a, ba ; B-e, be ; B-i, bi ; B-o, 
bo ; B-u. bu, — and so on all through the alphabet, 
— was so slow and so awfully stupid ! Now, thought 
Mabel, if it was B-a. ba, B-e, be. Baby, there would 
be something gained ; but who ever says Babebi- 
bobu ? If this were spelling, she would rather go 
out and play awhile. There was some sense in 

Why, learning to spell was not half as jolly as 
learning the alphabet. There were pictures to 

that, and poetry too. There was - 'A was an 
Archer, who Aimed high and low;" and "B was 
a Booby who could n't say ' Bo ! ' ,: There was 
" C was a Chicken who Clucked after Corn ; " and 
" D was a Dog that the Draughtsman had Drawn.' 
And lots more beside. 

Mabel knew she would fall asleep in a few min 
utes if the lesson did not come to an end — she was 
so drowsy. The letters danced up and down the 
page in such a droll way that she could not see one 
of them plainly. P-a, pa, was somehow or another 
mixed up with N-o, no ; and M-e, me, was trying 
to play at leap-frog with Y-u, yu. 

■' Miss Prim," said Mabel, covering the page 
with her hand, and shaking her head so earnestly 
that her yellow curls tumbled all over her face, " I 
can't say any more, please. I 'm very stupid, I 
know, and I suppose I 'm a bad little girl ; but 
I can't help it." 

Mabel was sitting on a stool at Miss Prim's feet, 
and her book was resting on Miss Prim's knees. 
She saw that her governess's lips stuck out more 
than ever, and felt sure that " pooh, pooh ! " must 
come at last : but it did n't. Miss Prim only said : 
"• Why, Mabel ! " and stared through her spectacles 
till her blue eyes looked as large as willow-pattern 

" Do you like all of this?" asked Mabel, point- 
ing to her book. 




"Of course I do, Mabel," answered Miss Prim, 
verely. " Why do you ask ? " 
" Because / don't," said Mabel, positively ; " and 
lat is more, I never shall." 

" But, Mabel," said Miss Prim, frowning, " you 
11 have to learn it if you ever hope to be able to 

" But suppose I don't hope to be able to read?" 
ked Mabel. " Suppose I don't care anything 
>out it ? " 

"But you must care something about it." in- 
jted Miss Prim. " What will you do if you can- 
)t read when you grow up to be a woman ? " 
" Get some one to read for me," said Mabel, and 
ondering how Miss Prim would get over that. 
Miss Prim did not try to get over it, but looked 
: Mabel in astonishment. 

■ " You can read for me, you know," continued 
label, "and I can pay you for it. I can save up 
ly pocket-money that papa gives me every week, 
nd that will be enough. Don't you see ? " 
" But that will never -do," said Miss Prim, shaking 
er head very angrily. 
" Does Dora have to learn this too ? " asked 
label, after a pause. 

" Certainly, miss ! Everybody has to learn it," 
nswered Miss Prim, "so go on with your lesson 
t once." 

" Did ma and pa ? " persisted Mabel, with tears 
1 her eyes, and looking anxiously up to the face 
f her governess. 

" I have said that everybody has to learn it, 
/label," said Miss Prim, solemnly. 

"Well," replied Mabel, disappointed, "I think 
hey might have found something better to do at 
heir age." 

"Come, come !" said Miss Prim, impatiently. 
' Let us have no more of this. Go on with your 
"I can't, Miss Prim. I'm tired, please; and 
'I 'm so puzzled that I can't think any more. And 
f you will let me. I will go into the garden to get 
my face cool, and come back as soon as I feel 
rested. If mamma says anything, tell her I 'm to 
blame, please. And I 'm sorry, Miss Prim, I 'm 
;ure ; but my head will not hold it all." 

Mabel rose from her seat and went through the 
balcony window into the garden. It was a cool 
afternoon in summer, and hundreds of flowers were 
in bloom. The cypress vine, with its bright red 
flowers, twined and clambered up the pole to the 
little pigeon-house on its top ; and the big bunches 
of green grapes that hung against the wall and 
peeped out from underneath the broad leaves, were 
just beginning to blush purple. The four-o'-clocks, 
pansies, carnations and verbenas seemed so fresh 
and happy to Mabel, as they fluttered to and fro in 

the soft breeze, — swaying first one way and then 
the other, — that she almost wished she were a 
flower too. Roses — red, white and pink — swarmed 
along the wall ; and there were some that stood 
out on branches all alone, which bowed and nodded 
to her as she walked along the gravel-path toward 
the shady arbor at the foot of the garden, where 
she had left her doll and her hoop. 

" Good-day ! " she said to them, in return for 
their politeness. "I'm quite well, thank you. 
How are you ? " 

" They do not have to learn how to spell," she 
thought, as she passed on. " They would not look 
any prettier, or smell any sweeter, if they knew 
how to read all the books in the world. I don't 
believe they would be half so agreeable. I think 
Miss Prim would be handsomer if she did not know 
so much ; and all the governesses I know arc ex- 
actly like Miss Prim." 

Mabel went on her way thinking of her troubles, 
and wishing that she could learn something, be- 
cause Miss Prim took so much pains to teach her ; 
and she supposed that it must be all right for her 
to study, or else her mother would not have asked 
Miss Prim to give her lessons. 

She reached the arbor at last, and went in. It 
was a large shady place, covered all over with 
vines, and the leaves were so thick that the sun- 
beams only made their way through in little spots 
that speckled the ground, and, as the breeze flut- 
tered the leaves, kept on changing their places like 
the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. A bench ran 
all around the arbor, and lying on this in a corner 
Mabel saw her doll. It had bright golden hair, 
large blue eyes, and plump little cheeks, just 
like Mabel's ; and its mouth was not a bit pret- 
tier than was hers, and it was not much smaller 

" Did you think I was never coming, you poor, 
neglected Dolly ? " she said, taking it up and 
smoothing its hair from its eyes. "It's all Miss 
Prim's fault, and, if you have any complaints to 
make, you must make them to her. You needn't 
pout at me in that naughty manner, miss ! It 
is n't good for little girls to pout ; and you '11 grow 
so if you do not stop it at once. Sit there, please, 
till I get up on the bench too, and then I '11 make 
it all up with you." 

Mabel placed her doll on the bench, with it; 
lack against the trellis-work, and then climbed up 
herself, and sat by its side. 

" O dear ! " she said, sighing, as she took her 
doll again and held it in her lap. " I do wish 
people would not make benches so high ; it is so 
hard to get up, and it makes me so out of breath ! 
You 're all right, Dolly, because I lift you up, and 
you don't scratch your legs as I do mine. Are you 




sleepy ? I am ; but I don't want to go to sleep, 
because I must soon go back to Miss Prim." 

The place was so quiet, and the air was so soft 
and warm, that Mabel grew more and more drowsy 
every moment. She could scarcely keep her eyes 
open, and her head felt so heavy that she had great 
trouble to hold it up. She would have fallen asleep 
in spite of herself if something had not attracted 
her attention all of a sudden. As she saw it, her 
eyes opened a little, then a little more, and then 

^ O 

the letters leaping, laughing, running, turninl 
somersaults, and mixing themselves up in all sort 
of ways. How they got out of the book withou 
being discovered, Mabel could not conceive. Yet 
there they were, having sports of every kind all b\ 
themselves, and seeming to enjoy them. Sud 
denly, and right in the middle of a game of blind 
man's buff, Miss Prim darted in among them witt 
a ruler, and set them scampering in every direc- 
tion, striking at them right and left all around tht 


wider still, until at last they were almost as large as 
Miss Prim's when she was astonished. 

"Why, what is this?" said Mabel to herself. 
" Upon my word, these are pretty doings ! All 
the letters of the alphabet have, somehow or an- 
other, got out of my book, and are running about 
here loose. There's 'A was an Archer' playing 
tag with : H was a House ; ' and there 's ' Q was a 
Queen ' trying to get away from ' U was an Urn,' 
who is holding on to her skirt. Yes ! and there is 
' K was a King ' trundling ' Q was an Owl' along 
like a hoop. They are all there, every one of 

Mabel could not make it out at all. There were 

arbor. Mabel got down from the bench and ran 
to her governess. 

" Don't frighten them, please, Miss Prim," she 
said. " They are only amusing themselves ; and I 
don't wonder at it, after they have been shut up in 
a book so long." 

But Miss Prim took no notice of Mabel, and 
kept chasing the letters about, till they hopped 
and skipped like so many fleas to get out of her 

Some of them got under the bench to hide from 
her; but she went down on her hands and knees to 
stir them out. As she did so, the remainder of the 
letters jumped on her back and upset her ; after 


8 9 

hich, they tied her hands and feet, and made her 
icapable of further mischief. 

"Ah ! " said letter W, the biggest one of the lot, 
dicing her ruler and standing guard over her with 
' ; "so you are not satisfied with putting us in a 
aok, but you try to cram us into people's heads 
jo, do you ? Suppose I was to cut your head off 
ith this ruler, how could you put us in your head 
ay more ? " 

Miss Prim kicked and struggled to get free, but 
le was not strong enough. W did not cut her 
ead off, at which Mabel was very glad ; but he 
ailed all the other letters to stand around Miss 
'rim while he made her say her letters over 
sventy-four times. He then gave her a spelling- 
asson, and rapped her on the knuckles every time 
he said it correctly. 

Mabel was sorry for Miss Prim ; but she thought 
: served her right for interfering with the letters 
?hen they were doing no harm. She therefore 
lid not make any objections ; but when they got 
he poor lady into words of three syllables, Mabel 
ould stand it no longer, for she thought that was 
lothing less than cruelty. So she went up to " W 
vas a Wheel," and took hold of his arm. 

" Please don't punish her any more," she said, 
' because it will make her head ache. Three syl- 
ables are too many for anybody. Let her go this 
ime, because it is not gentlemanly to strike a 

"Well," said W, '"it is n't gentlemanly for her 

go and chase us around with a ruler, and try to 
nammer us into people's heads as if we were nails. 
'. '11 let her off this time, because you ask it ; but 
f she ever comes here again, we '11 give her words 
n a hundred syllables, and so she had better look 
3ut for herself." 

They then untied Miss Prim, and let her go 
" So you like Miss Prim," said A to Mabel. " If 

1 was in your place, I would bother her, and stick 
pins into her." 

Mabel was going to give him a pretty sharp 
'answer, when she saw a hump-backed letter, that 
she did not recognize, coming toward her. 
5 " How do you do ? " he asked her. " Don't you 
'remember me ? Don't you recollect that you were 
'introduced to me last Wednesday ? " 

" Oh, yes ! " said Mabel. " You are Interroga- 
tion Mark. You always ask questions. Papa says 
it's wrong to ask too many questions ! " 

"What does he know about it?" inquired In- 
terrogation Mark, with a sneer. "Is he any 
authority here ? " 

Mabel did not condescend to reply to him, but 
went to O, who seemed an easy, good-natured let- 
ter, and spoke to him. 

" Tell me," she said, " how you all came to be 

" 1 must n't do that," replied O, "because then 
you would know all about it." 

" Oh ! " said Mabel, disappointed. " I 'm sure 1 
did n't mean any harm." 

" I know," answered O, "and I would tell you, 
but you see we are all afraid of Miss Prim. If she 
finds out how we do it, she will lock us up, and 
then we can't come here any more. When we 
amuse ourselves here, we are often quite rough, 
and some of us get hurt. There 's X, who is 
limping along there, for example. He was an H 
once, but he fell down and broke his legs, and now 
he is knock-kneed, as you see him. V used to 
walk like A ; but he was too fond of turning somer- 
saults, and one day he only went half-way over, 
and stuck on his head. He has never been able 
to get back again." 

Mabel was not surprised to hear all of this, for 
she had suspected something of the sort before, 
and was very glad to learn it was true. 

" How old are you ? '.' O suddenly inquired. 

" Six," answered Mabel. 

" You could be sixty if you wanted," O replied. 

•• How?" asked Mabel. 

" By adding fifty-four to yourself," answered O, 
looking very seriously at her. " I would do it if 1 
was in your place. It will save you the trouble of 

Mabel saw that it was true, but she did not know 
how to do it ; and she was not exactly sure that she 
wanted to add fifty-four to herself, without thinking 
about it. 

While she was turning it over in her mind, &c. 
came up to Mabel and shook hands with her. He 
seemed quite gloomy, and had a tired look that 
made her feel very sorry for him. 

" Please, sir," said Mabel to him, kindly, "are 
you ill ? " 

" Yes ! " answered &c, shedding tears and 
wiping his eyes on his cuff. 

" Then you ought to take something for it," said 

" Take what ? " asked &c, sighing. 

" Take some medicine," returned Mabel. 

"What should I take medicine for ?" inquired 
&c, a little fiercely, as Mabel imagined. 

" Dear me ! " said Mabel to herself. " He asks 
almost as many questions as Interrogation Mark. 
Because you are ill," she said aloud, somewhat 

" But I am not ill," said &c, very positively. 

" You said you were, if you please," pleaded 
Mabel, almost crying with vexation at being so 
constantly contradicted. 

". If I said it, I meant it," answered &c, growing 

9 o 



sad again. " And now I say I 'm not, and I mean 
that too." 

" Oh dear ! " said Mabel, greatly puzzled. "What 
So you mean, for I can't make you out ? " 

"That's where it is," returned &c, bursting 
into tears. " 1 mean everything ! A means some- 
thing positive ; I don't. B means something posi- 
tive ; I don't. I am not allowed to mean the same 
thing for two minutes. One moment I mean one 
thing, and the next moment I mean something 
quite different. And I never say what I mean, but 
leave everybody to guess it. It is too bad ! " 

Mabel felt a great deal of pity for him, as he 
stood there weeping and screwing his knuckles into 
his eyes. The tears fell so fast from him that his 
feet were in a puddle of water. Mabel thought he 
would catch cold, and was about to tell him so, but 
O winked his eye at her, and, tapping his forehead, 
shook his head. 

" He is crazy," whispered O to Mabel. " Don't 
mind what he says. He does n't know what he 
means. Nobody could ever find out from him, 
because he leaves half of it unsaid, and you have to 
guess it like a riddle. He is very tiresome and 
disagreeable. Just ask him to explain himself, and 
you '11 soon find out what sort of fellow he is." 

Mabel did not like this hard-hearted way that O 
had of talking about &c, who was growing more 
tearful and more gloomy every moment. She 
really pitied the poor fellow, and told O as much; 
but he merely replied with contempt : 

" Pshaw ! he is only a foreigner, and has no 
business among us. If he does not like it, why 
does he stay here ? What does a Latin person 
want to come mixing with us for ? Besides, he is a 
dwarf, and is all out of shape at that. Look at his 
little head and his big body." 

"A dwarf!" said Mabel, astonished, because she 
saw that &c. was quite as big as the rest of them, 
and a great deal fatter. 

"Well," said O, reading Mabel's thoughts, "he 
is an abbreviation, and that's the same thing." 

" Is n't that Parenthesis I see over there ? " said 
Mabel, pointing to a figure with bowed legs that 
was hobbling along. 

" Yes, I feel very sorry for him," said O. " His 
parents did not take good care of him when he was 
young. They tried to make him walk too early, 
and his legs became crooked, as you see. Look at 
Bracket yonder. He is all right. His legs are as 
straight as an arrow. His nurse knew what she 
was about. I don't think Parenthesis is very long- 
lived. He is quite weak, and does but little work 
now. Bracket does most of it for him." 

That disagreeable, ill-tempered and humpbacked 

Interrogation Mark came toward Mabel again, 
"Well; and how do you like us all ?" he asked, 
in his impudent, prying manner. Don't you think 
we are a jolly set of fellows ? " 

Mabel was going to tell him that she did not like 1 
him at all, and that she was very sorry she had 
made his acquaintance, when he said to her, with a 
spiteful grin on his face : 

" You think you know us all, don't you? Aret 
you aware that you have got to be introduced to 
our brothers Old English and Italics, to say nothing 
of Script ? " 

" I wish you would not tell me unpleasant things 
by asking me questions about them," said Mabel, 
growing angry with him. 

Just at that moment Miss Prim darted ui 
amongst them again with another ruler, and set 1 
them scampering in ever)' direction once more. 
Even W was knocked over this time, and &c. re- 
ceived such a thump in his back that he forgot to 
cry, and ran away as fast as his legs could carry 
him. When Miss Prim had beaten them as long 
as she could, she chased them before her with her 
apron as if they were a brood of chickens, and they 
all ran out of the arbor followed by her, tumblin 
over each other and picking themselves up as well 
as they could. 

Mabel laughed so heartily that she almost cried 
Then she suddenly found out she was sitting on th( 
bench, and could not tell how she got there ; be 
cause, a moment before, she was standing in thi 
middle of the arbor talking with O and Interroga 
tion Mark. She was greatly puzzled, but was so 
full of what she had seen that she did not think an) 
more of how she came to be sitting down again 
She hurried away to learn what had become of 
Miss Prim and the letters, but saw no trace of any 
of them. She then went into the house and spoki 
to Miss Prim about it, but her governess laughed 
at her and said she knew nothing about it. Mabel 
was sorry for that, because she did not think Miss 
Prim would be guilty of doing so mean a thing as 
telling a falsehood. If she would tell her a ston 
about such a matter, how could she depend upon 
her in her spelling lessons ? 

Everybody told her that she had been dreaming ; 
but she knew better than that, for she had spoken 
to them, especially O and &c. She found them all 
in her book again ; but though she questioned 
them frequently, they took no notice of her. In 
spite of that, nothing could convince her that it 
had not all happened just as she told of it. But 
she never saw them again, though she often went 
into the arbor and waited for them to come. And 
this added to Mabel's troubles. 



9 2 




By Margaret Eytinge. 


It was time to sow the seeds in the flower-garden. 
So the gardener brought out the seed-box and set ■ 
it upon the grass-plot, while he put on his thinking- 
cap for a few minutes. 

Each kind of seed lived in a little paper house by 
itself, with its name plainly printed on the front- 
door, for the seeds of one family are never allowed 
to associate with those of other families as long as 
they are nothing but seeds. After they grow to be 
plants and flowers it 's quite another thing. Then 
they are old enough and big enough to choose their 
own companions, and if the poppies see fit to nod 
to the marigolds, and the morning glories to throw 
kisses to the geraniums, it is nobody's business but 
their own. 

Well, in one of these paper houses (by the by, 
girls and boys call them small envelopes, but then 
girls and boys don't know what they 're talking 
about half the time) had lived the lady-slipper 
seeds all the long, cheerless winter. 

"Oh, dear, isn't this fine!" they all said to 
each other as the gardener, dropping his thinking- 
cap, lifted them out of the box, " is n't this fine ! 
We 're going to see the world at last." And they 
rolled over and over each other in perfect delight. 

The gardener carried them to the nice, smooth 
flower-bed, tore off the roof of their house and laid 
it upon the fresh brown earth, while he began 
loosening the ground a little with his rake. 

The lady-slipper seeds crowded to the place 
where the roof of their house used to be, and peeped 

Then they all commenced whispering together 
as fast as they could : " Oh ! how lovely ! Here 's 
everything the canary sung about this morning — 
the great trees nearly touching the sky, the tall 
green grass, the birds singing, and — (don't crowd 
and push so). And oh ! oh ! oh ! are we going to 
live here always, and do nothing but lie in the 
warm sunshine and listen to the birds sing? — (don't 
crowd and push so) — and " 

Before they could say another word, the gar- 
dener took up the paper house, and, pouring some 
of the seeds into the palm of his hand, scattered 
them on the ground, and began raking the dirt 
over them. 

Those left behind commenced talking again, this 
time not so fast, but in a low, frightened whisper : 
" O dear ! " — (such a different " O dear ! " from the 

first one) — "what has he done with our brothei 
and sisters ? Shall we never see them again ? An 
will he cover us up in the ground too ? It is dread 
ful to think of — better a thousand times be back 
the seed-box, listening to the song of the canary. 

" Be quiet a moment, do, dear ones," said a wet 
brown seed, " and listen to me. Have you all for 
gotten the last song we heard the canary sing ? 

; First a seed so tiny, 

Hidden from the sight; 
Then two pretty leaflets 

Struggling toward the light; 
Soon a bud appearing, 

Turns into a flower. 
Kissed by golden sunshine, 

Washed by silver shower, 
Growing sweeter, sweeter, 

Ev'ry happy hour!'" 

" Kissed by golden sunshine, 
Washed by silver shower," 

echoed the others. " That was the song, sun 
enough. Can we believe it ? " 

" The songs of the birds are always true," said 
the wee seed, " for they are taught to them by the 

" We do believe — we do believe," cried the others, 
hopefully. " We are no longer afraid, though the 
gardener is coming. He will put us in the dark 
ground, but we shall come up again, no longer, 
seeds but green leaves, buds and flowers." 

But one little seed that had said nothing all this 
time now hid itself away in a corner, saying 
" I 'm not going into the ground." And when th 
others rolled merrily out into the gardener's hand 
the paper house fluttered away with her in it to a 
short distance from the flower-bed, and fell on the 
ground between two cold grey stones. 

Nearly two weeks went by, and the lonely seed 
looking toward the spot where the lady-slippers had 
been sown, one warm summer morning, beheld 
rows on rows of bright green leaves peeping out of 
the ground and heard them saying gaily to each 
other: " Well met, brother." " Good day, sister." 
" How pleasant it is to be in the air and sunshine 
once more." 

But no one saw or spoke to her, poor little thing! 

Time went on, and the plants grew larger and 
stronger, and at last came pretty, tender buds, 
which soon unfolded into fragrant flowers of every 
beautiful hue, and the sun, wind, rain and dew 




'ed them dearly, and the bees, birds and butter- 
:s thought them the sweetest things on earth. 
As for the lonely little seed, it lived a dreary, 
;ndless life between the two cold grey stones, 
d every day it said to itself, over and over again : 
" Oh ! would that I, too, had had faith in the 

song of the canary, then should I have been beau- 
tiful and beloved with my brothers and sisters — 

' Kissed by golden sunshine, 
Washed by silver shower, 
Growing sweeter — sweeter 
Ev'ry happy hour !' " 



Bv Hezekiah Butterworth. 

[Our readers, especially those who have read the article on the 
ning Transit of Venus, in the November number of St. Nicholas, 
II, we think, be interested in the following true account of the boy 
ironomer who watched a transit of Venus just two hundred and 
rty-five years ago.] 

The first transit of Venus ever seen by a human 
Ve was predicted by a boy, and was observed by 
tat boy just as he reached the age of manhood. 

is name was Jeremiah Horrox. We have a 
imewhat wonderful story to tell you about this 

He lived in an obscure village near Liverpool, 
ngland. He was a lover of books of science, and 
efore he reached the age of eighteen he had 
lastered the astronomical knowledge of the day. 
[e studied the problems of Kepler, and he made 
le discover)' that the tables of Kepler indicated the 
ear approach of the period of the transit of Venus 
cross the sun's center. This was about the year 


Often on midsummer nights the boy Horrox 
light have been seen in the fields watching the 
lanet Venus. The desire sprung up within him 
D see the transit of the beautiful planet across the 
isc of the sun, for it was a sight that no eye had 
ver seen, and one that would tend to solve some 
f the greatest problems ever presented to the mind 
f an astronomer. So the boy began to examine 
he astronomical tables of Kepler, and by their aid 
endeavored to demonstrate at what time the next 
ransit would occur. He found an error in the 
'ables, and then he, being the first of all astron- 
omers to make the precise calculation, discovered 

'he exact date when the next transit would take 

He told his secret to one intimate friend, a boy 
vho, like himself, loved science. The young as- 
ronomer then awaited the event which he had pre- 

J licted for a number of years, never seeing the loved 
ilanet in the shaded evening sky without dreaming 

of the day when the transit should fulfill the beau- 
tiful vision he carried continually in his mind. 

The memorable year came at last — 1639. The 
predicted day of the transit came, too, at the end of 
the year. It was Sunday. It found Horrox, the boy 
astronomer, now just past twenty years of age, in- 
tently watching a sheet of paper in a private room, 
on which lay the sun's reflected image. Over this 
reflection of the sun's disc on the paper he expected, 
moment by moment, to see the planet pass like a 
moving spot or a shadow. 

Suddenly, the church-bells rang. He was a very 
religious youth, and was accustomed to heed the 
church-bells as a call from Heaven. The paper still 
was spotless : no shadow broke the outer edge of 
the sun's luminous circle. 

Still the church-bells rang. Should he go? A 
cloud might hide the sun before his return, and 
the expected disclosure be lost for a century. 

But Horrox said to himself: " I must not neglect 
the worship of the Creator, to see the wonderful 
things the Creator has made." 

So he left the reflected image of the sun on the 
paper, and went to the sanctuary. 

When he returned from the service, he hurried 
to the room. The sun was still shining, and there, 
like a shadow on the bright circle on the paper, 
was the image of the planet Venus ! It crept slowly 
along the bright center, like the finger of the In- 
visible. Then the boy astronomer knew that the 
great problems of astronomy were correct, and the 
thought filled his pure heart with religious joy. 

Horrox died at the age of twenty-two. Nearly 
one hundred and thirty years afterward, Venus was 
again seen crossing the sun. The whole astronom- 
ical world was then interested in the event, and 
expeditions of observation were fitted out by the 
principal European Governments. It was observed 
in this country by David Rittenhouse, who fainted 
when he saw the vision. 




By Samuel Woodworth Cozzens. 

" What is it, Jim ? " I inquired of our guide, 
whom I saw suddenly pause a short distance in 
advance of me, and then dismount from his horse, 
as if for the purpose of more thoroughly examining 
the ground. 

" It 's a fresh Comanche trail," replied Jim, 
" made since sunrise, and headed toward the river, 

Riding up, I dismounted, and, kneeling upon 

there ? Now, if them spears of grass had been 
trod down afore sunrise, you 'd a-found little parti- 
cles of sand a-clingin' to 'em ; but, yer see, they're 
as clean as a whistle, which shows that they was 
made after the dew dried off. As to their bein' 
Comanches, the print of this moccasin shows that 
plain enough; an' it's fair to reckon they're on 
the war-path, cause they haint got their families 
with 'em." 


the ground, closely examined the tracks before me, 
while Jim continued, looking around him : 

" They 're on the war-path, too, sure 's shootin'." 

As I could discover nothing myself but the tracks 
made by a number of unshod horses' feet, which 
had apparently followed one another in single file 
over the prairie, leaving a long, sinuous, snake-like 
trail behind them, I said : 

" I can certainly see the tracks plainly enough ; 
but how do you know that they were made since 
sunrise by a party of Comanches who are on the 
war-path ? " 

"Yer see them spears of grass?" replied Jim. 
" Wall, there was a heavy dew last night, war n't 

" But how do you know their families are not 
with them ? " interrupted I. 

"Because there a'nt no signs of their lodge- 
poles. Yer see," explained Jim, " Injuns alus 
carry their lodge-poles when their families travel 
with 'em ; an' as they fasten 'em to the sides of 
their horses, the ends drag on the ground, leavin' 
a mark behind 'em ; an' as there a'nt no mark 
here, it 's plain they 're travelin' without 'em, and 
that 's a pretty sartin sign they 're on the war- 

"If such is the case, what had we better do, 
Jim ? " inquired I. 

"Do? Why, there a'nt but one thing to do, 




i' that is to look out for 'em. " If they surprise us 

}w, 't will be our own fault," replied Jim. 
" Can you tell how many there are in the 

irty ? " asked I. 
"There's ten or a dozen of 'em, anyway," re- 

>onded the guide, curtly. 

j "Then it's very evident we don't want to cn- 
iounter them, and had better keep out of their 

ght," said I. 
; "Bless your soul," responded Jim, " do you sup- 

ose they a'nt seen us ? Why, ten to one. they 're 

iokin' at us this very minute, and know our move- 

tents as well as we do ourselves." 

" How looking at us ? There is n't a creature 

f any kind in sight except our own party," con- 

nued T, closely scanning the country with my 


" Wal, we can see nobody, that 's sartin ; but 
>r all that, you may depend upon it they 've seen 
s, for the Comanches never travel without having 
Dme one on the watch. That 's the reason Injun 

ails alwuz cross the highest ground, instead of 
jllowin' the valleys. Yer see this trail heads for 
iat high mesa there ; and more 'n as likely as 
ot, there 's an Injun lyin' in the grass up there, 
-watchin' ev'ry movement we make — or, at any 
ate, it 's safe to calculate there is." 

Now, this was anything but pleasant news for 
He, who had hoped to reach the Rio Grande, 
/hither we were bound, without meeting any of the 
lands of hostile Indians with which Western Texas 
It that time swarmed. 

I had been a resident of Texas some years, and 
lad recently been induced by some newly-arrived 
riends from the East to embark with them in the 
mterprise of stocking a ranche situated upon the 
lead-waters of the Guadaloupe River; and, for the 
)urpose of procuring the necessary animals to start 
■t, we had decided upon a trip into Mexico, cross- 
ng the Rio Grande at or near Eagle Pass. 

We had procured the services of Jim Davis, one 
)f Ben McCullough's celebrated band of Texan 
•angers, to accompany us as scout or guide. We 
lad left San Antonio five days before, and, at the 
:ime my story opens, were crossing the country 
ying between Fort Inge and the Rio Grande, still 
i four days' journey distant. 

Being the only one of the party, except the 
juide, who had had any experience upon the 
plains, the information just received was anything 
out pleasant, for I felt a good deal of anxiety as to 
what might ensue if we were attacked. 

The remainder of our party, with the pack- 
mules, having by this time overtaken us, Jim and 
myself rode along in silence, keeping a sharp look- 
out, but seeing nothing to alarm us. 

We had left the recently-discovered trail far to 

the south, and I was congratulating myself upon 
our fortunate escape, when, suddenly, Jim called 
my attention to a dark object upon the top of a hill 
some distance in advance of us. 

I gave it a cursory glance, and said : " Well, 
what is it ? " 

"An Injun on hossback," was the short, posi- 
tive answer. 

I immediately brought my glasses to bear, and 
could distinctly see that it was indeed an Indian, 
sitting upon his horse as motionless as a statue. 

"What can he be doing there?" was my in- 

" I reckon from the feller's position he wants us 
to understand he's friendly, and perhaps he wants 
to do a little beggin' on his own account, or may 
be he 's a spy or a Lipan," replied Jim. " When 
we git near enough, I '11 ask him who he is." 

As we approached, the guide raised his hand, 
with the palm open outward, and moved it rapidly 
across and in front of his face several times. This 
signal was immediately responded to by the Indian, 
who made a peculiar motion with his hand, similar 
to that made by a snake in crawling through the 

"He's a Comanche," said the guide. "Yer 
see," continued he, " all the different tribes have a 
sign by which they 're known. I asked him who 
he was, and his answer said ' Comanche,' which 
means ' snake,' and that wrigglin' motion is the 
sign of their tribe. I s'pose you call that tele- 
graphin', don't yer ? " 

Immediately upon the Indian's noticing and 
answering Jim's signal, he started toward us at a 
furious pace. 

" That does n't look very friendly, does it, Jim ?" 
inquired I, placing my hand upon my revolver. 

" Don't touch yer shootin' irons," said Jim ; 
"that's alwuz their way of meetin' strangers." 

By this time, the Indian, making a most graceful 
circuit, approached to within about thirty feet of 
us, and then suddenly reined in his horse, and 

The guide rode forward and shook hands with 
him, and, after a few moments' conversation, mo- 
tioned for us to come forward, when a general 
handshaking ensued. 

This ceremony completed, the guide informed us 
chat the Indian was a messenger from "Chiquito," 
the chief of a small band of Comanches. now en- 
camped upon the head-waters of the Leona, some 
four or five miles to the south, and that he pro- 
fessed to be a great friend of the whites, and was 
desirous that we should visit him at his camp. 

I found that my friends were both inclined to go, 
and so informed the guide that we would be gov- 
erned by his opinion in the matter. 




" Wal," said Jim, " I reckon we may as well go : 
may be a visit will git the good-will of the old feller 
— an' it can't hurt us, no how." 

At a motion from the Indian, we started, and, 
after riding some distance, came to a magnificent 
grove of pecan-trees : passing through which, we 
came in sight of the camp, a group of conical huts 
(instead of the usual skin lodge), con- 
structed of poles set in the ground and 
bent over to a common center at the 
top, which framework was wattled with 
bunches of long tulle and grass. 

When we first saw them there ap- 
peared to be an angry discussion going 
on between a dozen or more of the In- 
dians, one of whom, a large and power- 
fully-built Indian, about fifty years of 
age, the guide informed me, was Chi- 
quito, their chief. He was dressed in a 
tight-fitting jacket, with leggings and 
moccasins, from each outer seam of 
which there was suspended a long, loose 
fringe. Upon his head was a close- 
fitting cap of bearskin, covered with a 
profusion of eagles' feathers, so ar- 
ranged as to stand erect in a circle over 
the top of his head. His face, from 
which every particle of hair had been 
carefully eradicated, was striped in an 
odd and fantastic manner with different- 
colored pigments, in which white and 
yellow largely predominated ; the place 
usually occupied by the eyebrows and 
lashes being painted a bright ver- 

Around his neck hung two neck- 
laces ; one made of bears' toes, eagles' 
claws ■ and deer hoofs ; the other of 
brass balls, such as are sometimes used 
to tip the horns of cattle, and two sim- 
ilar ones hung pendent from his ears. 
Over his shoulders, and sweeping the 
ground, in regal style, was carelessly 
flung a large buffalo rug, gaudily 
painted and embroidered with beads 
and porcupine quills, while in a belt 
around his waist hung a singular- 
looking hatchet, or tomahawk. In his 
right hand he held the usual Comanche spear. 

The balance of the group were also arrayed in 
gaudy rugs and fancy " stroudings," which, with 
their grotesquely-painted faces, gave them a most 
hideous appearance. 

The entire party wore their hair long and flowing 
over their shoulders, while each carried in his hand 
an ugly-looking spear. 

j-is we approached them Chiquito stepped for- 

ward, and extending a hand ornamented wit] 
finger-nails an inch long, grunted out, in execrabli 
Spanish, "Mi Chiquito, bueno amigo," or, "I an 
Chiquito, a good friend.'' 

We all dismounted, and, after shaking hands witl 
each one, seated ourselves upon the grass, and the 
guide then informed Chiquito that we had visitec 



him at his request, and desired to know his pleas- 
ure. The chief gave us to understand that, not- 
withstanding he had always been friendly to the 
whites, he was very poor, and required many things 
to make him comfortable, such as blankets, tobacco, 
with fire-arms to shoot game, and particularly pow- 
der and shot, and anything else we had to spare. 

While this modest demand was being made the 
braves gathered around us, persisting in making 




i most minute examination of our dress, fire-arms, 
uipments and baggage, evincing their satisfaction 
r what they saw by a series of grunts, at the same 
le manifesting a decided disposition to appropri- 
i: any articles that particularly struck their fancy. 
iey even cut some of the buttons off of poor 
iffith's coat. 

Jim informed Chiquito that we were a party 
.veling for pleasure, and had nothing whatever 
th us to spare, except powder and balls to our 
emies ; and as he utterly refused to present the 
ief with anything save one blanket, we all arose, 
d bidding the Indians " buenos dios" we made 
e best of our way out of camp. 
Again on the road, I asked Jim if it was not 
igular that the Indians did not include whisky 
their demands, and was told by him that the 
i>manches were an exceedingly temperate tribe, it 
ing rare to find one of them who drank intoxicat- 
g liquor. 

"We a'nt a-goin' to git off scot free though; see 
we do," remarked Jim. " We shall hev trouble 
th them varmints yet, sure 's shootin' ! Old 
liquito looked blacker 'n a thunder-cloud when I 
Id him we had n't got nothin' for him. Injuns is 
rpents, any how ; and we shall see what we 

We encamped that night at Elm Creek, about 
ilf-way between Fort Inge and the Rio Grande, 
id had hardly been on the road a half hour the 
:xt morning when we discovered a party of Indians 
ling furiously toward us, evidently with hostile 
tent. We hastily rode to the summit of a small 
11, and, dismounting, waited, rifles in hand, for 
e attack. 

The country was an open, rolling prairie, espe- 
ally well adapted for the manceuvering_ of their 
irses. As they approached we could count ten in 
e party, armed with bows and arrows, as well as 
lears ; but as each of us was armed with a rifle, 
e felt that we need not fear their superiority of 

I could not but admire the daring bravery with 
hich they came thundering over the turf toward 
>, each man sitting erect and as firm in his saddle 
; though a part of the animal he rode. Their 
ces, breasts and arms were striped with yellow 
id black paint, presenting a singular contrast to 

<ie gaudy trappings of their horses and the bright 

:<)lors of their " stroudings." 

3 When within easy range, Jim gave the word, 

iid the next instant four rifles belched forth their 
une and smoke, when, as if by a stroke of a nec- 

omancer's wand, every Indian disappeared from 
Jr sight as the terrible Comanche war-whoop 

l note upon our ears, sounding like the yell of so 

uany fiends, and, in spite of our best endeavors, 

Vol. II.— 7. 

almost curdling the blood in our veins, while a 
flight of arrows fell around us, slightly wounding 
one of our horses. Another volley from our rifles, 
followed by another shower of arrows, accompanied 
by the most demoniacal yells and screeches, so 
startled and frightened our animals that it was with 
the greatest difficulty that we kept them from 
breaking loose and stampeding over the plain. 

While the apparently riderless horses of the 
Comanches were circling around us, each circuit 
bringing them nearer and nearer, Jim raised his 
rifle and fired. I saw one of their horses stumble 
and fall to the ground, and a moment after, its 
rider leap hurriedly up and as suddenly disappear 
just as a third flight of arrows assailed us from be- 
neath their horses' necks. 

" Them 's what they 're after," said Jim; as, in 
spite of our best exertions, two of our animals suc- 
ceeded in breaking loose and dashed madly over 
the plain, followed by the entire party of Coman- 
ches, yelling and screeching after them like so 
many demons. 

" Wal," exclaimed the guide, "the Injuns is 
gone, an' so be the horses ! We '11 have ter ride 
an' tie between here an' the Grande, sure 's shoot- 

" Can't we follow them and get the animals 
back ? " asked Blossom. 

" Foller 'em ! We might as well roller a streak 
of greased lightnin'," said Jim. " We may thank 
our stars that we 've got off as well as we have, and 
let well enough alone. I would n't 'a give five cents 
for our chance when I seed them fellers comin' 
down on us so ; ten to four 's a good many, when 
the four has their animals to look out for. I knew 
we could n't fight 'em on hossback, 'cause, yer see, 
them fellers is the best hossmen in the world. 
Did n't yer see how they dropped on to the sides of 
their hosses an' fired from under their necks ? I 've 
seen a dozen of 'em fight all day that way, and 
there 's no way of touchin' 'em without fust killin' 
their hosses. Come, Jedge, let 's go and look at 
that critter out there ; I 've a notion I 've seen him 

We walked out to where the animal lay, and 
recognized it at once as the horse ridden by Chi- 
quito's messenger, thus removing any doubts that 
might have existed relative to Chiquito's friendship 
for the whites. 

We deemed it advisable to return to where we 
were encamped the night previous, as the loss of 
our animals would require us to travel so slowly it 
would be impossible to reach water that night. 
Before we had been in camp two hours we descried, 
slowly winding over the plain from the direction 
of the river, the white tops of six wagons, which 
proved to be a Government train in charge of 

9 8 



Lieut. Holabird, en route from Fort Duncan to 
Fort Inge for commissary store:;. Of course we 
were greatly delighted to see the soldiers, for al- 
though we did not expect to be attacked again by 
Chiquito's Indians, it would be well for us to have 
a little military support if they should conclude to 
come after our two remaining horses. 

The Lieutenant treated us very kindly, and, as 
he found he could spare a horse or two, he very 
generously loaned us a couple of animals to enable 

us to resume our journey. After we had been th 
reinforced and encouraged, we parted from oi 
new-found friends and reached the Rio Grande 
the afternoon of the second day. 

Three weeks later, upon our return to the riy 
from the interior with the stock we had purchasec 
we learned that Chiquito's braves had been severe] 
punished by a party sent out from Fort Dunca 
for that purpose ; news that we were not very sort 
to hear. 






(Adapted/rom the Swedish by Selma Borg and Makik A. Brown, the translators of the "Schwartz" and" Topelins" novels.) 

p Perhaps you think of a pretty wild pigeon with 
5 :r young, an "ungrateful cuckoo" in his stolen 
: :st, or a pair of nightingales, with their sons and 
uighters; or may be a profuse fern-family which 
ireads itself in all directions, seeming to say to 
ie passer-by, " I am like a palm-tree — only hand- 
imer. I have a crown at the top and a little 
brtune-teller ' at the root. Look at me with rev- 
ence ! " 

No, my reader, I mean none of all these when 
speak of my little family in the woods. It 
msisted of a poor peasant's widow, her four chil- 
ren and her old mother. Their log-cabin was 
jilt at the edge of the wood, and was small and 
npretending, like most of such homes, only it had 
ways been large enough to contain their happi- 
es's. But at the time I take you there it had a 
imbre appearance, though the sun shone through 
ie low windows and nature all around was arrayed 
i blooming holiday attire. In the middle of the 
oor, on two wooden chairs, stood a coffin, in which 
ie children's father had been laid to his last rest, 
'he simple shroud was completely covered with 
owers, made of gilt paper. Such productions 
gure on all solemn occasions in the country, 
nough the ground may be strewn with most bril- 
ant flowers. 

1 " Mamsel," who lived at the great mansion, had 
orked all these paper flowers and given them to 
ttle Hanna, who would have run for miles in her 
are feet to get them. 

Hans Nilsson's limping horse, which was to draw 
ie coffin to the church-yard, had not yet arrived ; 
either had Sven, the tailor; Ljung, the old cor- 
oral; and Korp Pelle, who were the three hon- 
red burial guests ; so that the family would be a 
ttle while longer alone with the dead. 
The old grandmother, who had been an invalid 
>r many years, put out her wrinkled face between 
ie threadbare curtains, and then drew it back 
gain with a sigh. "Mother" herself went back 
nd forth between the kitchen and the stuga, or 
ommon-room, busy with the "treats;" for the 
tiests were to have what the house could afford, 
•hich was little enough. She did not weep, but 
ne saw in her face that her heart had, as she her- 
elf said to grandmother, " got the crack.'" 

At a short distance from the coffin stood the 

radle, in which the baby, only a few months old, 

ly playing with two or three gilt flowers that had 

>een left over from the funeral show. 

The two boys — one ten and the other thirteen 

years of age — presented a sadly comical appearance 
as they stood there in their borrowed clothes ready 
to go to the church-yard. The jacket-sleeves worn 
by one of them hung far down over his hands, 
while those of the other did not reach the wrist. 
Their trousers were rolled up high so as not to 
catch the dust on the road, and the shoes — stuffed 
at the toes with straw — threatened at every step to 
remain behind as a lost receipt for the borrowed 

But then came the horse and the hay-wagon 
and the three funeral guests. Then all partook 
of refreshment, after which the coffin-cover was 
screwed on. Mother meanwhile turned her face 
toward the window, looking out on the meadow. 
Only a neighboring rose-bush saw her lonely tear. 

The only person who sobbed aloud was little 
Hanna ; and when the coffin was at last carried out 
she followed close at the heels of the brothers, now 
looking with tear-drowned eyes at the object of 
their sorrow, and then hiding her face in the little 
narrow hempen apron. 

Grandmother drew the curtains together, and 
kept them so all that day, and "mother" seated 
herself in silence by the baby, leaning her pale face 
against the cradle. Not a word was exchanged 
between the two women during the two hours of 
the boys' absence. When the mother rose to meet 
them on their return a nervous quiver passed over 
her lips ; but she was unable to speak. She could 
only put her hands on the heads of her sons. 

" Father rests in peace," said the oldest. " The 
large chestnut-tree shades the grave." 

This was like a greeting from the dead one ; so 
it seemed to the mother. And for the first time she 
burst into tears. 

"Don't cry so hard, mother," said Marten, in a 
comforting way. " Have you not me left ? Don't 
you know that I 'd rather perish than allow you to 
suffer for the want of anything? I tell you, 
mother,, when the coffin was lowered into the grave 
I thought I had all at once become many years 
older, and it was as if I had heard father's own 
voice saying to me, ' Now, Marten, you shall take 
my place at home.'" 

"And then you have me too!" joined in the 
younger boy, Nisse, straightening his figure. "I'll 
tell you, mother, that one day I beat Jon Pers- 
son's Ola so that every one of his joints cracked ; 
and he is fourteen. Don't you believe that I can 
work? I tell you that I can." 

"And I will pick berries, and sell them at the 




great mansion," said little Hanna, peeping out with 
her tear-stained face. " You shall see, mother, 
that I will try to do something too ! " 

The mother's heart overflowed, but she did not 
do as many mothers would have done — fold the 
children in her arms and kiss them. She only 
looked at them mildly, and said : 

•'You mean it all; may God give you the 

The next morning at six o'clock, just as the 
servant-girls were the busiest in the kitchen of the 
great mansion, a little barefooted boy entered. 

" Why, there is Lofhulta Nisse ! " exclaimed the 
cook. " What do you want ? " 

" I wish to speak with the ' patron.' " 

" He isn't up so early as this." 

" May be you '11 let me wait then ? " 

" Perhaps I can tell him what you want? " asked 
the housekeeper, in a friendly tone, as she happened 
to come into the kitchen just as Nisse was speaking. 

" No, thank you," replied Nisse. " I 've got to 
speak to him myself." 

" It must be something very important," said 
the cook, in a joking way. 

" Important enough for me," answered Nisse, 
who never seemed to lack a reply. 

" Would you like to have something to eat while 
you wait ? " 

Nisse made a curious bow, and pushed back his 
hair from his brow, while his face lighted up amaz- 
ingly. He had not tasted a mouthful of food that 

After a good meal, which relieved the long wait- 
ing, Nisse was permitted to go in to the " patron," 
who was quite a gracious gentleman. 

" What is it you want with me, my little boy ? " 

" I came to ask you, sir, if you would please hire 
me to cut logs." 

"You? Why ; you are only a little nine-years 
old stripling ! " 

" Ten at next Michaelmas." 

" Granted ; but that work is a man's job." 

" I mean to be a man," answered the boy ; and 
looked the " patron " straight in the face. 

"I must say However, I will let you try 

to split rails." 

" Kind ' patron,' please let me cut logs." 

" Boy, you are out of your mind. You have not 
strength enough for such a job." 

" Only let me try, sir." 

" Why do you insist upon doing just that work ? " 

"Because I can earn more by it." 

"Are you greedy too ? " 

" No, I don't think so ; but father was buried 
yesterday, and Marten and I are now going to take 
care of the house." 

The " patron " was silent for a moment. Tifej 
was a slight quiver of his eyelashes and the corif 
of his mouth. 

"Ah! you are Lofhulta Nisse; now I und| 
stand. You are of the right stock, my boy. 
and cut your logs, but don't cut off your feet, J 
that would be a great misfortune to you." 

"Thanks a thousand times," replied Nisse 
breath, and made the best bow of which he 

When the evening came, Nisse had cut, nol 
cord, but a large pile of wood, and he had doni 
well too. His face was beaming. 

"Now, you see, sir, yourself," said he to I 
" patron." 

" Yes, I see ; but one fly does not make a suj 
mer. To-morrow you will be tired out, and una 
to come back." 

" You will see, sir," replied the boy. 

" And you have not been cutting yourself? " 
quired the " patron," patting him on the head. 

" No, sir; my feet are yet in their place." 

" And so is your head, I perceive. You are j 
come back to-morrow, little ' family-father ' ! " 

No king who has conquered an empire coiB 
feel the justifiable pride that Nisse experience 
when he, with twelve shillings* in his hand — tl 
fruit of his first day's labor — came running honil 
red with heat, to his mother's cottage. 

" What did I tell you, mother? " was his greeting 
as he held out to her the shining pieces. 

The mother's eyes shone with a peculiar tendifl 
ness as she took the coin, and folding it carefully! 
a piece of paper, placed it on a little shelf, close I 
the hymn-book and the Sunday silk handkerchi<L 
which last she had received as a present from h 

The next morning, and every following mornin 
precisely at five o'clock, Nisse stood in the yard 
the great mansion and began his work. 

The little "family-father" had steady emplo 
ment from that time ; so had his elder brother, wl 
was engaged in another direction. 

Every Monday morning Nisse brought a ha 
with him, which his brother had caught, and f 
which he was well paid. 

" Your brother must be a splendid hunter," 
the housekeeper to Nisse, one day. 

" Not a man in the village can beat him," 
Nisse's proud reply. " He never misses 
mark ! " 

But the next winter Nisse had no longer 
hares for sale. 

" How is that ? " inquired the housekeeper. 

"Well, you see," answered Nisse, thoughtfull 
" he does n't shoot any now." 

" But why does n't he shoot any ? " 



' Old Swedish pennies. 




' " Because Hanna thinks she is too big a girl to 

"Run dog? What do you mean ?" 
! "Well, you know, she has always acted- as a 


iunting-dog for us. She barked, and in that way 
tarted the hare. We could n't afford to keep a 
eal dog, of course. " 

And now the family got along quite nicely. The 
ioys brought home their earnings every Saturday 
:vening, and the mother went out to day's work, 
5 she had done before her husband's death. Little 
■lanna had taken care alternately of grandmother 
md the baby; and if Hanna went out to earn 
noney, mother could stay at home, rest, spin a 
ittle, and see the neighbors now and then, so that 
:verything would be just about right. 

But man proposes and God disposes. One day 
the little cottage lay all in a heap of ashes. The 
accident occurred when Hanna went down to the 
creek. The baby had managed to play with the 
fire and had dropped a 
coal into the carded wool. 
Hanna came back just in 
time to save the old grand- 
mother and the little in- 
cendiary, who had thus in- 
nocently caused the poor 
family so much trouble. 

They were allowed to 
stay over a month in a 
vacant outhouse belong- 
ing to the '"patron." This 
period was a great trial 
to the widow, as she re- 
ceived just at this juncture 
less assistance from her 
two sons, who, contrary to 
all former habit, now neg- 
lected their work. They 
began later in the morn- 
ing, left work earlier in the 
evening, and even Hanna, 
who had always been obe- 
dience itself, began to run 
away, and was never at 
hand when she was most 

The mother worried first 
in silence, but at last she 
made up her mind to speak 
to her children about this 
after church the next Sun- 

When this time came, 
however, the oldest boy 
asked mother to go with 
them all to the place where 
their old cabin had stood. 
Why should she not ? 
She thought it providential 
that she could just on that 
spot give vent to her heart's anxiety. But how 
is this ? Does she dream, or is she actually awake ? 
There stand the walls of another cottage, by no 
means a faultless structure, but in her eyes it seems 
a palace. In a flash her mother's heart tells her 
that it was on this work that her children had been 
spending the time they had apparently wasted. She 
stretched her hands toward the new cottage, and 
for the second time since her husband's death she 
wept, but this time in gladness. 

"And you have done all this yourselves ?" she 
finally asked. 





" Mother, don't you remember what we promised 
you when father was buried ? " asked Nisse, in an 
attitude of pride. 

" But where did you get strength to do it? " 

" A little at a time," explained Marten, brushing 
away his long light hair from his eyes. "The 
worst job was to drag the beams from the woods. 
I don't believe we could have done that if we had 
not borrowed old Jon's sled." 

''And a nice time we had to get it down from 
behind his house," said Hanna. " Jon's boy had 
to take Nisse's place in moving the big thing." 

" But we don't see where the hearth and the ijf j 
are to come from," added Nisse. 

These additions were made in their turn, h*. I 
ever;, for when the "patron" heard what till 
poor children's love for their mother had inspili I 
them to do, he immediately sent carpenters id I 
masons to finish the cottage. 

And here I end my narrative of the little fort- 
family. It is founded on fact. The restored I 
tage exists to this day, and the young people \<o 
built it are still living, — an honor to the class t* 
belong to, and a life-long joy to their aged motlr. 

By Helen C. Weeks. 

" What do people do on board a man-of-war ? " 
" Don't you remember I told you the other day 
there was no more regular life in the world, and 
that every hour had its fixed employment ? Now, 
for instance, one of mine for a long time, all the 
way indeed from Java to St. Helena, and a week 
or two on from the latter place, was to guard my 
belongings, to prevent their" being torn up, cut, 
burned up, thrown overboard, or hung from the 
topmast. What do you think of your uncle's re- 
spectable trousers hanging from the tiptop of the 

" You did n't put them there, Uncle Jack? " 
" Do I look like it, Grace ? Consider my two 
hundred pounds, and then ask if I could go up a 
hundred feet in the air to do any such thing. No, 
Gracie ; Pedro was at the bottom of it all, though 
he had thirteen assistants in a good deal that he 

" Now, Uncle Jack, tell the whole. Don't make 
me all aggravated. Who were the thirteen ? " 

" They could a tail unfold, — in fact, thirteen 
tails. In short, Grace, when we left the island of 
Java, where our ship touched for wood and water, 
we took with us one hundred and sixty-eight Java 
sparrows and fourteen monkeys. You know I was 
in China a year or more, and this was on the way 
home. Forty of these sparrows were mine, but 
they were no trouble to me, because my boy did 
all the care-taking. I had two of the monkeys 
too ; little, delicate, mouse-colored ones, with soft, 
silky hair. One died very shortly, but the other 
lived several months, and clung to me like a baby. 
He would creep under my coat or into a pocket, 

and be content to lie there all day if I would 
him, and he played like a kitten. Then there ' 
a little cinnamon-colored one which spent a gri 
deal of time with him, and taught him all 
wickedness he knew, and their antics together wi 
funny beyond my telling. Poor Cinny came to 
untimely end, and you shall hear how. 

" You know the captain of a man-of-war messi 
that is eats, alone, unless he invites some 
specially to share his table, and the steward alwa 
takes great pride in having meals handsomi 
served. The monkeys made him a great deal 
trouble, running away with bread, and so on, a 
generally, to prevent their getting in, he locked I 
door of the cabin till the captain came. This p; 
ticular day, the captain had sat down to a beat 
ful little dinner, and was on the point of beginnii 
when he was called away, and went, leaving the do 
open. Cinny was on the watch, and sped in, 1 
lowed by a large black monkey full three feet hig 
who had had his head and face shaved by 
sailors, leaving only mustache and side-whiske 
You can't think what a grim-looking creature 
was, with these jet black ornaments against a snc 
white skin. It gave him a goblin-like, uneartl 
look. I should n't have cared to meet him 
dark night. 

"Well, the two went in, as I said, velvet-foott 
and silent, and began operations. The lights we 
all open, as the day was hot, and they threw dis 
after dish out into the water. Then Cinny tot 
the butter and oiled himself from head to foo 
drawing what was left in streaks up and down tl 
table-cloth. The black one in the meantime bega 



, : >on the dessert, and ate or threw it on the floor as 

e mood took him, and in the midst of all the 

ptain returned to find Cinny emptying salt, mus- 

t Vrd and so on from the castors into the soup- 

■ reen. They went by him like lightning and up 

-.. e mast, but this time there was no escape. The 

ptain was furious, and, drawing a pistol, shot 

•■ em both. They fell into the water, — drowned, 

I ' course ; and so two ended. 

1 " All sorts of things happened to the eleven sur- 

. vors. There were two or three sheep on board, 

; .. r the benefit of the sailors, and their lives were a 

irden to them. Their tails were pulled, and their 

ool, by that dreadful eleven ; and one day two 

"the monkeys decided to ride them, and so pinched 

id kicked and tormented the poor creatures that 

ley leaped from their pen, and then, frightened by 

le sailors, went over the ship's side, monkeys and 

ll, and were drowned. The sailors wanted to 

iwer a boat, for the poor monkeys swam and cried 

ke children, but we were going too fast, and they 

ere gone before a boat could have reached them. 

" So only nine were left, and three of these got 

1 t the captain's liquors one day and drank so much 

7 ine that they never woke up from the sleep into 

ir'hich they fell. 

I " Still the six, headed by Pedro, accomplished a 
. . lir share of mischief, though he was the master 
Scpirit. Against my monkey he had some special 
;rudge, and poor Tito had a hard time. Pedro 
■:7as big and strong, and principally tail, which 
oneans that he could swing farther and from more 
unexpected places than all the rest put together. 
ie delighted in clasping Tito in his arms, running 
1 the topmast, and then swinging by his tail till 
1 Tito screamed. Sometimes he dropped him into 
) he rigging, and Tito caught at ropes'-ends and 
iiaved himself, only to be whisked up and tortured 
igain. At last I whipped Pedro whenever he came 
1 nto my state-room, and it was this which made him 
,iate me so. He would sit just where I could not 
1 -each him, and chatter and make faces, growing 
nore and more angry if he thought I did not notice 
:iim. He stole my brushes, went off with pens and 
pencils, hung my clothes on the mainmast; and I 
ieclared he must and should be killed." 

" Why did n't you kill him, then ? " Gracie asked. 
! " Because he belonged to the first lieutenant, 
who was taking him home to his little girl. He 
knew a great many funny tricks, and was good 
enough with everybody but me ; and I locked my 
door on going out, and guarded against him as well 
as I could. 

" In course of time we came to St. Helena, and 
lay there for several days. The grave of the Em- 
peror Napoleon is there, as jealously guarded still 
as if his dust could rise against his old enemies, 

and we had some trouble in getting permission to 
visit it. It came at last though, and we spent a 
day in going over the old places where his restless 
soul fretted itself away. All around the grave is a 
shallow trench, in which the common horseshoe 
geranium grows profusely, and the sentinel gave 
us a quantity of slips, together with some from 
Napoleon's favorite willow. I had a large box filled 
with earth ; planted my slips and made plans as to 
whom I should give them when I got home. They 
grew famously ; and as we sailed on day after day, 
their bright, clear green was the most refreshing 
sight on board that big ship. We counted the 
weeks that must pass before seeing home, — counted 
them, and even marked off the days, as they say 
boarding-school girls do ; but after a three years' 
cruise one gets a little light-headed at the last, and 
such doings are excusable. I thought how Walter 
and I would plant the willow and watch its growth ; 
and a willow is very satisfactory in that way, it 
grows so swiftly. 

" The days were burning hot. The sun poured 
down on the decks, and to breathe at all I had to 
leave door and port-hole both open. So it hap- 
pened that one afternoon I went into the captain's 
room for a few minutes, without closing my door 
or even thinking of Pedro, who lay on a chair sound 
asleep. My movement wakened him ; he saw his 
chance and darted in, and I went back to see the 
last one of those precious slips flying through the 
port-hole. Yes, Gracie, not one left ! 

"What did I do ? What could I do, but go to 
the lieutenant and tell him somebody must shoot 
that monkey, and if he did n't I would ? I cooled 
down after awhile, though. The worst he could do 
was done. He had a conscience too, such as it 
was, and never met my eye after that. And judg- 
ment overtook him at last. The steward had 
spread phosphorus paste, for killing roaches, on 
some bread and butter, and laid it about. Pedro 
at once lunched upon all he could find, and, before 
anybody knew what was the matter, died. Three 
of the little ones sickened, and, at last, when we 
came into port, only three of the fourteen remained. 

" I went on shore with my forty sparrows and 
my Tito, and took a room at the Metropolitan for 
a few days. The sparrows proved such a nuisance 
that I sold all but two, and at last came very near 
getting rid of Tito. The chambermaid announced 
that the gentleman in "48" had a monkey, and 
every child in the hotel surrounded my door in the 
morning. He was a beauty, and I showed him off 
with great satisfaction. 

" Then I started for Maine and home, but the 
journey was the most embarrassing one I ever took. 
People asked if I owned a menagerie, for I had 
added a cage of white mice for Walter. Tito went 




wherever I did ; and at the stations where we stop- 
ped ten minutes for refreshments, the whole busi- 
ness was suspended, while waiters and newsboys 
and baggagemen and even the engineer and fire- 
men crowded around. To this day, he draws all 
the children of Farmington around your Aunt 
Mary's window. You '11 see him this summer, 

Grace, r.nd then you'll fall in love too. I shoii 
be quite willing to have had him for an ancesto" 
" I wouldn't," said Grace. "I heard you al 
papa talking, and I know better. Tis n't so at * 
1 guess God could make monkeys, and men tea 
and not have to have one grow out of the othi. 
Now, Uncle Jack, let 's go into the garden." 

By Olive Thorne. 

Who would suppose that a wild African, whose 
only dress is a piece of skin, would trouble himself 
about fashions ? 

To be sure, he feels no interest in the style of 
coats or hats, but he is just as much absorbed in 
the great business of adorning himself as though 
he followed the fashions of Paris. Curious styles 
he has too, as a German traveler has lately told us. 

To begin with, the hair is the object of his great- 
est care. Its training begins in the cradle, — or 
would if he had a cradle, — when it is tortured into 
some extraordinary form, and kept there by means 
of gum-arabic and ashes, till after long years it will 
retain the shape of itself. Sometimes it is like a 
cockscomb, and sometimes like a fan. One poor 
baby's hair will be trained, so that in time it will 
stand up in rolls over the head, like the ridges on 
a melon, while another's is taught to stand out 
like the rays of the sun, as usually represented in 
pictures. With some Africans, part of it hangs 
down in braids or twists, like the one in the picture, 
and the rest is laid up in monstrous puffs on 
each side of the head. But the drollest one of all 
is made to look like the glory around the head of a 
saint — in pictures. The hair is taken in single 
locks, stretched out to its greatest length, and fast- 
ened at the ends to a hoop. The hoop is held in 
place by strong wires, and its edge ornamented 
with small shells. The effect is very comical. 

In most of these wonderful arrangements the hair 
is parted in the middle (I wonder if our young 
gentlemen imported that style from Africa), and is 
kept in place by plenty of gum and ashes, or clay. 

All this elaborate hair-dressing is on the heads 
of the men. The women of the country wear their 
hair in the simplest manner, perhaps for the reason 
that the wife does the cooking, cultivates the land, 
adorns the body of her husband with paint, and 

dresses his hair, which must be enough to keep hit 
time well occupied. 

His hair once dressed, this African dandy tunll 
his mind to the further decoration of his bodl 
First he rubs his shining skin with a mixture <jl 
grease and ashes, or powdered wood of a red colo I 
puts on his one scanty garment, made of the ski. t 
of some animal, or of bark, occasionally trimme.8 
with the long black tail of a monkey or other am' 
mal, and then he is ready for his ornaments. 

Across his forehead, just under the edge of hi. J 
hair, like a fringe, he hangs a string of teeth; 
They may be teeth of dogs, or other animals, or, J 
he is a great warrior, of his human victims. 

Next he adorns his breast with an ornamenj 
made of ivory, cut to resemble lions' teeth, an! 
spread out in star-shape. Around his neck hi 
hangs several necklaces made of strips of skin cu j 
from the hippopotamus, and finishes up with pain 
in various styles ; dots, or stripes, or zigzags, square 
like a checker-board, or marbled all over. 

That is "full-dress" for a Niam-Niam in tht 
centre of Africa. 

The dress of the king is a little more elaborate i 
On the top of his wonderfully dressed hair he wear; 
a hat, a foot and a-half high, made of reeds, shapes' 
like a piece of stove-pipe, covered with red feathers 
and finished off at top with plumes of the. same. 
But of course that is not enough for a king's head ; ; 
so he adds to it a great ornament of shining copper, 
which looks something like half a saucepan, andl 
through a hole in each ear he thrusts a bar of cop- 
per as big as a cigar. 

His bracelets and anklets, and necklaces of cop- 
per and hippopotamus hide, are too numerous to 
describe. Around his waist, over his bark garment, 
— as a sort of sash, — he wears a strip of buffalo 
hide, tied in large loops, and furnished with great 



alls of copper at the ends. His most costly orna- 
lent is made of more than three hundred lions' 

This king, by the way, is a very important per- 

jnage. All that he has touched is sacred. No 

: ne can see him eat, nor touch anything he has 

:ft. It is high treason, punished with death, to 

ght a pipe with coals from his fire. 

The women of the Niam-Niam dress mostly in 


Sgured patterns made on the skin by a black liquid. 
'There is no end to the variety of styles, — stars 
'and crosses, bees and flowers, stripes and dots, 
'squares and circles,— and at grand festivals there 
is great strife to get new and striking designs. A 
dress of this sort lasts three days, and is then rub- 
bed off, and a new one put on. Her bracelets and 
mklets are usually made of twisted grass or reeds, 
though sometimes she will go to the extravagance 
of hanging the tail of a cow or some other animal to 

her girdle. Her baby she carries in a scarf, which 
she wears around her waist ; and her duties, as I 
said before, are very numerous. 

There are other curious things about these 
people, besides their dress. Their houses have 
walls of clay or reeds, and sharp-pointed roofs of 
straw. The furniture consists mainly of wooden 
platters and stools, which are colored black by long 
burial in the mud, and their only light is a burn- 
ing pine-knot. 

Before the house is usually a post, on which are 
hung the trophies of the hunt, such as horns of 
antelopes, skulls of animals and men, and, horrible 
to say, dried hands and feet. These proclaim to 
the world how great a warrior is the owner, and, 
in part, answer the purposes that fine houses and 
clothes do with us. 

When a Niam-Niam pays a visit to his neighbor 
he carries his own stool to sit on, and when he goes 
into mourning for a friend he shaves his head, and 
scatters his precious braids, twists and puffs to the 
wind, which certainly shows sincere grief on his 

When two friends meet they do not shake hands, 
but they join their middle fingers in such a way 
that the joints crack, while they nod at each other, 
more as if in disgust — as it looks to a white man — 
than in friendly greeting. 

If they find a hollow tree in which wild bees have 
laid up honey, they at once smoke the bees stupid, 
and eat honey, wax, bees, and all. Indeed they 
eat several things that we would not like. The 
children in some parts of Africa eat rats and field- 
mice, which they catch by means of baskets woven 
in the form of long tubes. They are laid flat on 
the ground, near the mouse-holes, and then the 
little savages begin a great noise of stamping, 
shouting and slapping of hands. The poor little 
animals are frightened, and run into the traps for 
safety, and are easily taken. They are then tied 
by the tails in bunches of a dozen or so, as you 
have seen children tie cherries, and bartered with 
each other as choice morsels. Sometimes they use 
them as baits to catch cats, — roast-cat being a 
favorite dish. They build small huts of twisted 
reeds, put the mice in, and cats are attracted to the 
trap, of course. 

The grown people feast on still stranger diet, — 
such as the bodies of their enemies killed in battle, 
elephant-meat, dried till it looks like a log of wood, 
dogs and the termites, or white ants, of which you 
may have read, and whose immense cone-shaped 
houses are so common in Africa. You will see on 
the next page an African destroying one of these 
houses, no doubt with the purpose of feasting on 
its inhabitants. 

Not only Africans eat those wingless ants, but 




even Europeans have been known to delight in 
them. They are roasted very much as coffee is 
with us, and considered quite delicious and whole- 
some. You will notice that these ant-houses are a 
great deal taller than the man who is attacking 
them. They are made of clay, every grain of which 
has been softened by the jaws of the " workers," as 
certain of the ants are called, and the walls have 
dried so hard and hrm that men could climb over the 
house without breaking 
it down. ...__. 

Our African may have 
some other feeling be- §( 
sides the hope of a good g 
dinner, in attacking the » 

termites, for he knows 
the mischief they are 
capable of doing ; they 
will devour everything 
that comes in their way 
unless it is of stone or 
metal, and their bite 
often proves very pois- 

They are so ravenous 
that if one of them were 
to fasten upon the naked 
body of this savage, it 
would suffer itself to be 
torn into pieces, rather 
than loosen its hold. 

But he probably wears 
some "charm" as a pro- 
tection ; for the natives 
are very superstitious. 
Like all ignorant sav- 
ages, they firmly believe 
in the Evil Eye, and in 
witches and goblins who 
live in the woods, and 
talk together in the rust- 
ling noise of the leaves. 

No important thing is 
begun without consult- 
ing certain signs to see if it will be successful. 
Some of these are very curious. One is to put a 
few drops of water on a smooth-topped stool, then 
take a smooth block and rub it across the stool as 
though to plane it off. If the block moves easily 
the sign is good ; if hard, the sign is bad. 

Another trial is to dose some unfortunate hen 
with a certain greasy liquid. If she dies the sign 
is bad ; if she gets well it is good. 

But the hens are not the only sufferers. Another 
way to try one's luck is to seize a wretched cock, 
duck him under water many times till he is stiff 
and senseless, and then leave him alone. The fate 

is decided by his recovering or dying. The guil'j 
of any one accused or suspected of crime is triecf 
in the same way, and no one dreams of suspectinjt] 
one whose signs have shown favorably. 

To protect themselves from the danger and los: 
of fires, they provide no fire-engines and insurance^ 
companies, as we do, but hang an amulet made 
for those who are Mohammedans — of a few versesjj 
of the Khoran, or Mohammedan bible, wrapped irj 


skin, over the door, which must be admitted is a 
much simpler and cheaper way than ours. 

If a horse or donkey is ill he is dosed with raw 
pork, but a human being has for medicine a few 
verses of the Khoran, made soft in water. 

If a tribe wants to declare war against another, 
there are suspended on a tree near the borders of 
their land an ear of corn, a feather from a fowl, and 
an arrow. The meaning of these dreadful symbols 
is that whoever touches their corn or poultry will 
be punished by arrows. 

I don't suppose you feel much admiration for 
these savages, but the opinion is fully returned, for 


neither do they think much of you. They believe actions by what they would like to do to us, for 

; :hat if one of their race is unfortunate enough to go alas ! many of them are cannibals and quite used 

nto the country of the white men, he is at once to the idea of killing and cooking their fellow-men. 

;aught, put into a cage, and fed like an animal. Let us hope that this dreadful state of things 

What do you suppose for? Why, for the sake of will pass away, and that before long they may be 

iiis fat, which is used to make a most dreadful taught the error of their ways, and also have good 

poison. I 'm really afraid that they judge of our reason to think better of the white man. 


By Lucy Larcom. 


O my little sea-side girl, 

What is in your garden growing ? 
"Rock-weeds and tangle-grass, 

With the slow tide coming, going ; 
Samphire and marsh-rosemary, 

All along the wet shore creeping ; 
Sandwort, beach-peas, pimpernel, 

Out of nooks and corners peeping." 

O my little prairie girl, 

What 's in bloom among your grasses ? 
" Spring-beauties, painted-cups, 

Flushing when the south wind passes; 
Beds of rose-pink centaury ; 

Compass-flowers to northward turning; 
Larkspur, orange-gold puccoon ; 

Leagues of lilies flame-red burning." 

O my little mountain girl, 

Have you anything to gather? 
"White everlasting-bloom, 

Not afraid of wind or weather ; 
Sweet-brier, leaning on the crag 

That the lady-fern hides under; 
Harebells, violets white and blue ; 

Who has sweeter flowers, I wonder ? " 

O my little maidens three, 

I will lay your pretty posies — 
Sea-scented, cloud-bedewed, 

Prairie grasses, mountain roses — 
On a bed of shells and moss. 

Come and bend your bright heads nearer ! 
Though so fair your blossoms are, 

You three human flowers are dearer. 




By Emma D. Southwick. 

Have all the St. Nicholas boys and girls heard 
of William Tell ? And if they have, do they know 
where be lived when he shot the apple from his 
son's head ? Perhaps some of you are ready to ex- 
claim, " Oh yes ! we know it was in Switzerland; " 
but yet you may not know much about it, after all. 

triot, and loved his liberty and that of his country 
better than anything else. 

The Swiss were then under the rule of Austria ; 
and Rudolph of Hapsburg, the German Emperor,! 
aimed to bring all Europe under his own control.] 
Through him and his sons, fighting was kept upl 


Now if you will come with me to Lake Lucerne, we 
will visit the very place where he played, as a 
boy, over 500 years ago ; and first, at Burglen, 
about two and a-half miles from the lower end of 
the lake, we find the spot where he was born. If 
we go into the little chapel there, known as Tell's 
Chapel, we shall see rude pictures of scenes in his 
career, which keep his memory alive among the 
people. When you are told that he was a farmer, 
and had charge of the lands connected with a rich 
abbey, you will no doubt wonder how it happened 
that one leading such a quiet life should become so 
famous that people to this day should read about 
him with interest. It is because he was a true pa- 

for 200 years with Switzerland, in the hope to make 
it a part of Austria ; but the Swiss had determined 
to become free ; and as Tell had married a daughter 
of Walter Furst, who was a true patriot, he joined 
with others in opposing Gessler, a tyrant who was 
placed over them as a Governor, and who, knowing 
that the people hated Austria, caused poles to be 
raised in the principal towns, and the Ducal hat of 
Austria to be hung upon them, commanding that 
every person who passed should uncover the head, 
in token of respect for their Governor. 

So it happened that one of these poles was planted 
in Altorf, only a short distance from Tell's home ; 
and going into town one day to market, he passed 

; :8 7 4-] 



he hat without noticing it. This was enough. Tell 
vas arrested and taken before Gessler, who, at first, 
.-ondemned him to death, but on hearing that he 
vas skillful with his bow, ordered that, to redeem 
lis life, he should shoot an apple from his son's 
lead in the public square of Altorf. 

This was a dreadful thing for Tell to attempt, for 
le might kill his dear little boy; and he begged to 
ie released from it ; but there was no escape. 
Messier would not change the form of punishment; 
°>o at the appointed time Tell stood on the very 
';pot now occupied by the statue which you see in 
1 ':he picture, while, about forty rods from him, the 
I Doy was tied to a lime-tree, and the apple placed 
rpon his head. 
We are told that the little fellow was so brave and 
1 so confident of his father's skill that he inspired him 
with courage. Then, asking God to direct the ar- 
row for his son's safety, Tell let it fly. Seeing that 
I. it pierced the apple, and that his boy was unhurt, 
lie ran to him, caught him in his arms, and in his 
joy forgot a concealed arrow which he had taken 
with him, determined to shoot Gessler if the boy 
fell. When this arrow was seen, and Tell confessed 
what he had intended to do with it, he was placed 
in chains, and taken to Flulen (two miles from Al- 
torf), where Gessler's boat lay on the lake. Into 
this boat the tyrant forced his prisoner, intending 
to shut him up in the prison-castle of Kusnacht, 
but they had not gone far when a sudden storm 
came on, which so startled Gessler that he ordered 
Tell's chains to be taken off, so that he might 
manage the boat and take them safely to the 

Tell seized the rudder ; but for himself, not 
Gessler ; for as the boat neared a projecting head- 
land he sprang ashore and pushed it off into the 
surf again, then rushing on, he hid in a ravine 
through which Gessler had to pass on his way to 
Kusnacht, and shot him with the very arrow that 
he had set apart for the deed. The spot on the 
lake shore where he landed is marked by a small 
chapel, which was consecrated to his memory in 
5 138S, thirty-four years after his death. It is said 
[that one hundred and fourteen persons who knew 
-him were present on the occasion, although some 
[writers are trying to prove now that there never was 
; such a person as William Tell, and that the story 
of the apple is all a fable. However that may be, 
the Swiss peasants love the name of Tell so much 
that they have many statues of him in many of 
their villages. 

Not far from Tell's Chapel, and near the opposite 
shore, a grand pyramid of rock rises straight from 
the water. This natural monument has been dedi- 

cated by the Swiss to the memory of the German 
poet Schiller, who wrote a play founded upon the 
life of William Tell. The rock bears this inscrip- 
tion, in large gilded letters : 





and travelers who visit the spot are impressed with 
the beautiful thought of these people who grasped 
this everlasting outgrowth of nature and conse- 
crated it to their hero and his poet. 

Every year, the first Sunday after Ascension, the 
people from all the towns around come to Tell's 
Chapel in steamers gayly decorated and multitudes 
of small boats with all the Swiss flags flying. Their 
bright Swiss costumes and the gay music make it a 
lively scene indeed. The bishops and priests come 
too, and spend some time in services here. 

Then they go on a little farther, and stop at Riiti, 
on the opposite shore — a pretty green meadow 
enclosed, except on the water side, by a steep 
mountain, which rises nearly seven hundred feet 
above the lake ; for here, one dark night in Novem- 
ber, 1307, thirty-three men, real patriots, met, and 
bound themselves by an oath to fight for the free- 
dom of their native land. Three fountains now mark 
the places where they believe the leaders stood. 
Here the peasants gather and "drink healths" 
from the watery, and towards night go on to Altorf, 
where the people are ready to receive them with 
streamers and mottoes waving from their windows; 
arches and wreaths span the streets, and young 
people in groups sing songs of welcome. Ah ! 
such crowds as fill this little ancient town on that 
day ! Why, they really seem to bring the queer 
old houses and narrow streets to life. And around 
this great statue, which was presented to Altorf by 
the riflemen of Zurich, they hold their grand festiv- 
ities, while in the church which you see near by, 
masses are said. Here the people attend in vast 
crowds. They do not forget, either, the spot where 
the boy stood. Although the lime-tree died long 
ago, a fountain stands in its place. An old tower 
near by bears on its sides paintings of the " Flight 
of the Arrow," "Tell's Leap from the Boat," and 
the " Death of Gessler." Here fathers and mothers 
tell the old story again and again to their little 
ones. My story is growing long, but I think I hear 
some bright boy saying, " Please don't stop till you 
tell us if the Swiss patriots did make their country 
free." And I answer, yes. Two hundred years 
after the meeting at Riiti the whole of Switzerland 
was independent of Germany, and free it has been 
ever since. 


Did you ever hear this old story? " Madam," said the monkey, one day, " do you 

There was a monkey and a cat ; and the cat was notice those chestnuts that have been left wasting 
kind and the monkey was cunning. on the fire ? " 




" Yes, I see them," said the cat. 
"Don't you like chestnuts ? " asked the monkey. 
" Never eat 'em," replied Mrs. Cat. 
"Curious! " remarked the monkey, "very curi- 
as ; for I dote on them. I wish I could get one 
two of those. They are just done. See how 
autifully they have cracked open ! The two or 
iree on the coals in front, I mean. Would you 
lind handing them to me ? " 

Of course I wouldn't," said the cat, " if they 
ere not on the fire." 

Oh ! If you are going to be disagreeable about 
said the monkey, " I don't want to say any- 
ning more on the subject." 

I did n't intend to be disagreeable at all," said 
le cat. " I only did not want to burn my paws." 
I suppose you would rather I would burn 
line," said the monkey. 

Not at all," said the cat. " 1 don't want to 
lisoblige you, I 'm sure. Perhaps I can get one or 
ro for you without burning myself." 
" Oh, no matter ! " said the monkey, with a care- 
ss wave of his paw. " No matter ! I don't want 
ju to put yourself to any inconvenience." 
i It's no inconvenience at all," said the cat, " if 
can do it." 

So saying, she approached the hearth, and cau- 
ously stretched out one paw until she reached a 
lestnut, and then she jerked it toward her. 
" Whew ! " she said. " It 's hot as fire." 
"I guess they're not so very hot," said the 
lonkey, blowing on the one that the cat had pulled 
om the fire. 

" At any rate, it burned my paw," said the cat. 

" Pshaw ! " said the monkey, as he picked up 
the chestnut, after a few minutes had elapsed. 
"They're not hot. I can handle them easily. 
And this one is delicious." 

" I 'm glad you enjoy it," said the cat. " Per- 
haps I was mistaken about their being so very hot. 
I '11 see if I can get you another." 

This time the cat pulled out two at once, and 
they burned her so that she yelled like a good 

" If you 're going to scream that way," said the 
monkey, " you '11 soon have everybody in here, 
and then there 's an end to all our fun." 

" Fun ! " said the cat. " It 's no fun to me." 

" That 's because you are so dreadfully particu- 
lar," said the monkey, munching his chestnuts. 

This hurt the cat's feelings, and she got up to 
leave the room. 

There were quite a number of splendidly roasted 
chestnuts yet on the fire, and the monkey was very 
much annoyed. 

" It 's just the way with you cats," he said. 
" You 're so deceitful. Just when you might be of 
the greatest use to your friends you get up and go 

"What sort of a friend do you call yourself?" 
said the cat, whose spirit was now thoroughly 

" A very good sort of a friend," said the monkey, 
nibbling at a chestnut shell. " If it had n't been 
for me, you would never have known how to get 
chestnuts out of the fire." 

By M. H. B. 

Once a little body was buried alive ; 

He did n't like this, and so began to strive. 

When they were not watching, he popped out his head — 

Sakes alive ! What 's happened ? " the old farmer said. 

What shall we do? for he mustn't run away." 

Why, find a young birch-tree, and cut it down this day; 

Then trim you off the boughs and put it by his side, 

He will likely run around it till he is satisfied : 

Round it and round it, quite up to the top, — 

When he gets there, he '11 come to a stop ; 

Then he '11 make blossoms, and soon by this means 

We '11 gather in a crop of little baby beans. 




By S. B. C. Samuels. 

"Fred," exclaimed Lillie, running in from 
school, " there 's to be an industrial fair here, at 
the town-hall, week after next. I 'm going to make 
moss-baskets and fill them with wild-flowers. Why 
don't you send in your card-city? " 

Now, Fred's card-city — "Christmas City," de- 
scribed in St. Nicholas for May, 1874 — was the 
light of his eyes. 

It was the fruit of his own ingenuity and in- 
dustry. People had come to the house purposely 
to see it. Every one had admired it, and, as you 
know, a story had been written about it. 

At earliest dawn of day, Fred would be at his 

No wonder that the city throve and grew. The 
were boxes innumerable about the house filled wi 
houses, stores, churches, bridges, and the like ; 




1,1,1 1 



1 1 












1 1 




1 1 



desk studying his books of architecture for new 
models ; and late into the night, unless his mother 
interfered and sent him to bed, one would find him 

Fig. 2. Front of Custom-House. 

Mrs. Atherton was amazed at the quantity of pii 
which disappeared from her cushions to be used 1 
the young builder for various purposes. 

Now Lime's idea gave him a new impulse. I 
thought that he could arrange his city to the be 
advantage on a frame large enough to contain all tl 
buildings and his railroad and harbor. But first 1 
must have a few new buildings, so he began at on 
upon the model of a custom-house. 

Fig. 2 is the front of the building. He first ci 
two plain sides and a back of the same size as th 
front, and then pasted all together with cleats 
the four corners inside. This formed the body 
the building. Next he attached a flat roof, allov 
ing it to overlap the front about half-an-inch. 1 
the edge of this the portico (Fig. 1) was fastenei 
This gave the effect of a deep piazza, and made 
very pretty building. 

Fig. 3. Front of Court-house. 

working away by the dim light of a safety-lamp — 
never satisfied with work achieved ; always striving 
to make something better. 

A court-house was the next building modeled 
The back of this building was shaped exactly lik 
the front (Fig. 3), except that it had no towe 



4 shows one side ; the other was exactly like buildings which were necessary for a railroad ter- 

All the places marked X Fred cut out and minus. He began with one of the smallest, but not 

;ted strips of thin paper across the windows, in- least important, buildings, and set himself about 

5, for sashes. One side of the tower is repre- planning a serviceable freight-house. This was not 













i i 

J -r- i -T 

i i 

, i 



i i 

i i 

i i I 


i i 

i i 


i i 


i i 

Fig. 4. Side of Court-house. 

ted by Fig. 5. The other side was like it, and 

back was of the same size, but plain. Fig. 6 is 

top of the tower. The roof of this building 

s a Mansard. Two pieces like Fig. 7, two like 

[, 8, and one like Fig. 9, were cut out and 



t r 



Fig. 11. Side of Freight-house. 

a large building, but others like it might easily be 
erected as the business of the town increased. 

In this the back and front (Fig. 12) were alike. 
The two sides, one of which is shown (Fig. 11), 
also correspond. The roof (Fig. 13), composed of 


:Ti r 

1 1 

■r 1 1 

1 1 11 

1 1 I 

1 1 

1 1 1 

II 1 ! 


1 1 

1 1 

r ■ 1 1 

1 1 1 

1 1 

Fig. 6. Top of Tower. Fig. 7. Half of Front of Mansard Roof. 

Fig. 8. Side of Mansard Roof. 

I. 5. Side of Tower. 

rered with black paper. These were then pasted 

'ether at the four sloping corners, so that the 
l) straight ends came on each side of the tower. 
;;ure 10 shows the top, which was made of black 

Der, and was secured to the roof before it was 
Uced upon the building. 

?red next touched the edges of the building with 

Fig. 9. Back of Mansard Roof. 

two straight strips, was of card-board joined at the 
top and covered with black paper. A narrow strip 
of paper, put on like the saddle-board of a pitch- 
roofed house, completed this building. 

But Fred's greatest work in this connection was 
a mammoth train-house, or railroad depot. This 
was one of the most imposing buildings in his city, 

Fig. 10. Top of Mansard Roof. 

ite, and attached the roof; and, when all was 
ie, it made quite an imposing hall of justice. 
\ railroad has been already referred to ; for Fred 
' tsidered that it would be very poor policy to have 
" ity without adequate means of railroad continu- 
ation. Consequently he determined to erect the 

Vol. II.— 8. 

Fig. 12. 
Front of Freight-house. 

and he was anxious to make it very attractive to 
the traveling public. In its architectural features 
it was almost equal to the Grand Central Depot in 
New York city. It had a fine tower, a magnificent 
front for the use of passengers, and a very conveni- 
ent back portal, through which the trains were to 




enter and depart. The drawings for this building back of the depot, and Fig. 1 6 one side. B 
were made with great care, especially for the front sides are alike. When the sides and front 
and sides, where the windows and doors required back had been drawn and cut out, they were pas 

Fig. 16. Side of Depot 

Fig. 17. Mansard Flooring. 

nice clean work. He was very careful, too, in together with cleats, at the corners, inside ; ar 

making the lettering where it was needed. then the Mansard flooring was laid on, and paste 

Figs. 14 and 1 5 represent respectively the front and in place. 




Next the tower was put together. Six pieces, 
e Fig. 18, were used for the two sides and backs 

Fig. 19. Mansard Floor of Tower. 

Fig. 18. Side of Tower. 

It II 
It II 

Fig. 20. Front of Mansard Roof. 

both towers ; and two pieces, like Fig. 19, for the 
ansard flooring at the tops of the lowers. There 
;re eight pieces, like Fig. 20, for the two towers, 
form the Mansard roof. These were pasted at 

Fig. 21. Front of Mansard Roof. 


Fig. 22. Back of Mansard Roof. 

Half of Side of Mansard Roof. 

e four sloping corners, and then all around the 
ittom edge, and set upon the flat top, or Mansard 
loring (Fig. 19). 
The front of the Mansard roof was pierced by the 

tower. These were first cut out and covered with 
paper, and then the front was attached to the two 
half-sides, and the back to the other two half-sides. 
When these were dry, the top (Fig. 24) was pasted 
on, with the end mark- 
ed a on the clock-tower. 
There now remained 
the addition of the top 
pieces (Fig. 25) to the 
Mansards of the towers, 
for which two pieces 
were required; and then 
the final touch, — the brackets (Fig. 26). These 
were placed on each side of the clock-tower, where 

Fig. 25. Top of Man- 
sard Roof of Tower. 


Fig. 26. 

peal 14^1 

Fig. 27. Engine and Tender. 

the letters b b occur, between the clock-tower and 
the round windows. 

The cars and engines were cut from soft pine, and 
painted, and were easily made. Where the wheels 
occur the wood was not cut out, but left in its nat- 

/s rrnwi mm vrnn wr-\ rrm 



Fig. 28. Passenger Car. 

ural color, and the wheels were painted on. The 
drive-wheels of the engine were painted on paper, 
and pasted in place, as the lines were rather deli- 
cate. The smoke-stack was cut out separately, and 
sharpened at the bottom end. A slight gash was 

Fig. 24. Top of Mansard Roof. 

3ck-tower, as shown in Fig. 21. There were four 
eces like Fig. 23 ; one for each side of each 

then cut in the engine where the smoke-stack be- 
longed, and it was fitted in place and securely glued. 





Fig. 36. The mainsail was cut apart at the lit 
marked a ; and the dots show where the pin pierc 
the paper. The "St. Nicholas " was rigged \v 

The shackles were made of narrow scrips of card- 
board, glued on to the upper and under side of the 
platforms ; these were pierced with needle-holes. 
A pin was then filed in halves, 
and the upper half inserted in 
the needle-holes. This not only 
made a good shackle, but look- 
ed like a brake-wheel. The way 
in which the shackles fitted to- 

g. 30. Shackles fitted. 

pie that there is 
The "Rob Roy 
Holiday Harbor. 

Freight and truck cars were 
easily made, and were so sim- 
no need of showing models. 
" was the first steamer afloat in 
She was cut from soft pine, and 

Passenger Steamer "Rob Roy.' 

painted. Her smoke-stack was put in like that of 
the engine in Fig. 27. Next in turn was the 
schooner "Jack Hazard." The masts were made 
of pins, run directly through the body of the vessel 
from the keel. The bowsprit was a pin also. 

Fig. 32. Schooner "Jack Hazard." 

These masts were found to be particularly fitted for 
rigging sails (Fig. 33), as all that was necessary 
was to slip the points of the masts into the sails 
where the dots occur on the straight lines, 1 and 2. 
Two more of Fred's models are given in Figs. 34 
and 35. These two vessels were the admiration of 

Fig. 33. Mainsail and Foresail of Schooner. 

all Fred's boy friends. The full complement 
sails used by the "Harry Loudon" is shown 

Fig. 34. Propeller " Harry Loudon." 

the foresail and foretopsail (b), and the span] 
and mizentopsajl (c). 

The arrangement of Holiday Harbor was 
affair of vast importance to Fred. He decided 
consult his mother about it. Mrs. Atherton 
once remembered an old looking-glass frame in t 

Fig. 35. Paddle Steamer " St. Nicholas." 

attic. This she brought to Fred. A piece of gla 
half a foot square, still remained in the frame. 
was bright and clear. The back-board also 

"Now," said Mrs. Atherton, "your harbor 1 
before you. First select such buildings as you wi 




to put here. Then bring your bottle of mucilag 
some moss, and some house-sand." 

"Yes, ma'am," said Fred. "You're a gre 
contriver, mamma." And off he went for tl 
things required. Mrs. Atherton showed him he 
to arrange them. The back-board of the fran 
was covered with mucilage, and moss was put 




und the broken edges of the glass to hide them, 
en white sand was shaken over the rest of the 
1 ird, and little tufts of moss* set here and there, 
ween which Fred arranged his bridges. 
^ model of one of the bridges is given in Fig. 
A is the bottom side of the floor of the bridge, 
e cleats were put on to make it strong, 
e floor was made of thick card-board. 
jS one side of a pillar ; four pieces were 
:ded, and they were pasted together at 
corners, then the cap (C) was fitted 
E is one side, and D one end of the 
tie-work. Two pieces of each were 
1 :essary for a support. These were 
j;ted together at the corners. Fred 
1 lid make as many of these sections as he chose, 
1 could lengthen or shorten the bridge at pleas- 
Fig. 38 is one side of a culvert, 
tfter his bridges were satisfactorily placed, Fred 

Sfi^ 1,1,1, '?^ 

/O- i I sJxi^. 1 1 M>s. 

_SV 1 1 i/v <& 1 1 Ms, 

<Sy" 1 1 r ft V, 1 \X 

Fig. 38. Culvert. 

anged some houses, stores, &c. ; then his depots 
Ye placed in convenient positions ; his freight- 

houses close at hand ; the custom-house was put by 
the water's edge ; the vessels were placed in the 
harbor, and the trains of cars on the railroads; 
while the little people he had made stood around 
on the different streets and wharves, looking in- 
tensely pleased ; at least, so they seemed. 


1 ' \ 



/ 1 

/ 1 1 1 ; 1 \ 

A 1 1 1 l\ 

/'ill 1 \ 

h \ 

Fig. 37. Sections of Bridge. 

Some trees were scattered about, and made a 
pretty effect. These trees were Lillie's idea. She 
brought in a handful of little hemlock cones. 
Through the hearts of these she stuck long pins, 
points downward, and painted the cones green and 
the pins brown. Wherever Fred wanted a tree he 
stuck one of these. The point of the pin entering 
the back-board of the frame held it fast, and the 
trees stood firm. 

Next day, at the fair, Christmas City and Holiday 
Harbor took a prize and a diploma, and attracted 
a great deal of attention. 



Son grau SIC. ©. spt){ff{t>8. 

5r«t), roenn t& Stag mad)t, madjt fief) ber SBaucr auS 
;em Sett fjerauS. (Br mad)t bie fiammertr)iir auf, unb 
djt fie roiebet jit, um fii) an baS Stagerocrf ju mad) en, 
en Slnfang bamit gemadtt toirb, bag man geuer madjt, 
, t>or alien £>ingcn, Saffee jn m a d) e n . DaS SEBett) 
dj.t inbeffen bie <3tu6e rein, unb mad)t Drbnung, unb 
rat fid) bie £aare. 
Benn fte lange madit, mad)t ir)r bcr SJfann cin fin* 

flre<S ©cfidjt. 2Darau3 mad)t fie fid) fveilid) nidjt siel, 
a6er gutc3 Slut madjt est bod) aud) ntdjt, roenn cincm 
immcr bie Scmerfung gemadjt roirb : „3)iad)e, bag 
bu bid) fertig mad)ft, id) fann »or Merger nid)td 
mad) en." Slid er fid) cnblidj auf ben SBeg mad) en null, 
urn auf ben 3at)rmavf t ju m a d) e n, m a d) t ii em fo 
graulidjcs ©djitccroetter, bag er nidjt roeig, roarer mad) en 

.This little German sketch — of which we shall be glad to have translations — is a series of plays upon the German word "Machen," 
':h means to make, to effect, to do, to produce, to form, to cause, to bring about, to act, &c. &c. &c. 

Translations of "Le Petit Paresseux" have been received from: Mary L. Robinson, M. F. T., Nettie C. P., M. E. L. W., 
rles H. Payne, Marion Azubah, David W. Lane, "Plymouth Rock," E. L. B., Laura E Tomkins, Ada F., Frank E. Camp, 
xe G. Heler, "Cupid and Chow-chow," Nelly McDowell. Carrie Huse, L. E. LL, Fannie A. Freeman, Agnes L. Pollard, Susie Elliott, 
\a W. Raymond, Harry Neill, E. J. F., and Augustus Nickerson. 






One day, Grand-ma went to sleep in her chair, and it near-ly turned t 
town up-side down. It was only a lit-tle bit of a nap, but oh ! how mu 
trou-ble it made ! 

You see, be-sides the nap, there was a lit-tle boy in the house. Th 

lit-tle boy's name was Rob, and R 
was so hard to watch that when 1 
Mam-ma went out she used to sa 
" Grand-ma, do you think you c; 
watch Rob while I go to mar-ket 
Then Grand-ma would give a lit-t 
jump and say : 

" O ! of course I can 

So this day Mam-ma went to ma 

ket, and Grand-ma watched Rob 

hard as she could till the NAP came 

As soon as Rob saw the nap, he knew he was free ; and off he rai 

In a mo-ment Grand-ma woke up and 

saw the emp-ty room. 

" Sake 's a-live ! " she cried, as she ran 

out in-to the hall. " Where is that child ?" 

He was not in the hall, nor in the yard, 

nor any-where a-bout the house. Oh ! 

oh ! oh ! where could he be ! 

The poor old la-dy was sure she nev-er 
would see the dear boy a-gain. In her 

fright she looked 
in the beds, un-der 

the beds, in the pan-try, in the coal-scut-tle, in th( 
ice-pitch-er, and even in the crack-er-box. Ther 
she ran out to a po-lice-man, and told him al 
a-bout it. 

" Mad-am," said the po-lice-man, "it is not like-1) 
he can be found. I think he is gone for good ; bui 
we '11 send a cri-er all over the town." 

So the cri-er went all over the town with a big 
bell, scream-ing : 




" Hear ! hear ! Boy lost, named Rob, — black eyes, pug nose. Boy lost 1 

>y lost!" (Ding, dong.) "Boy lost, three years old!" (Ding, dong.) 

The cri-er made such a noise that if Rob had screamed 

out "Here I am!" right un-der his nose, he would not 

have heard it ; or if all the men on the street had called, 

" Stop that bell — here 's Rob, safe and sound," it would 

have been just the same. He would have gone on 

ring-ing the bell and scream-ing at the top of his 

voice, " Boy lost ! boy lost ! " 

But Rob was not un-der 

the boy's nose at all. Where 

was he ? 

I Poor Grand-ma was al-most cra-zy by this 

fine. She ran in-to the yard with a kind man 

id looked down the well. 

" Rob-by ! Rob-by, my dar-ling ! are you 
uere ? Come to Grand-ma, my pet. Oh ! oh !" 
Then she ran back in-to the street, and there 

was with an or-gan man 

/ Grand-ma was sure it was Rob, from the way he hopped a-bout. But no. 

When she put on her glass-es it was not Rob 
at all — only a mon-key. 

By this time near-ly the whole town knew 
that Rob was lost. Such a time you nev-er 
heard. All the grand-mas cried and said it 
was very wrong to take a nap when you 
were watch-ing a child like that ; and all the 
lit-tle boys thought how nice it would be to 
live with Rob's grand- 
ma. The pa-pas went 

) the sta-tion-house to in-quire ; the mam-mas ran 

i) mar-ket to tell Rob's mam-ma ; and the news-boys 

ran all o-ver town with " ex-tras," cry-ing, " Boy lost ! 

toy lost ! " 

When Rob's mam-ma heard the bad news, she ran 

ome as fast as she could go. 
"Rob-by! Rob-by!" she called, up and down the 

ouse. " Rob-by ! Rob-by !" But no one an-swered. 
9 'hen she turned pale, and Grand-ma said, " Don't 

lint ; that 's a good child," when all at once the poor 





Mam-ma clasped her hands and said: "He must be killed! If he we 

a-live he would hear me. I know he must be dea| 
or else — or else — he is eat-ing jam ! " 

She flew to the cel-lar where all the good thine 
were kept. Grand-ma hob-bled after her, quit 
tired out ; then fol-lowed the po-lice-man, the cri-e 
and the cook ; and there, down in the cel-lar, ju 
as hap-py as he could be, sat Rob — eat-ing jam 

He was so hap-py that he did not know that h 
Grand-ma was a-wake ; and Grand-ma was so gl 
that she went up-stairs and took the nicest lit-t 
nap she ev-er had in all her life. 


By Annie E. McDonald. 

Fred-dy is our pet, and one of the bright-est lit-tle ca-na-ries ev-e 
seen. He came from Bel-gi-um. His bod-y is of a deep yel-low col-or 
and his head and wings are pret-ti-ly marked with grey and black. Wher 
giv-en to us he was quite a young bird, and scarce-ly knew how to dc 
any-thing ; but he soon be-gan to learn ma-ny lit-tle tricks. 

The pict-ure shows him just pull-ing up his bas-ket. When we put food 
in-to it, we shut the cov-er down, and hang it by a string to his perch ; 
and he al-ways pulls it up at once, lifts the cov-er and helps him-self. 
Oft-en, when his bas-ket is emp-ty, he a-mus-es him-self by try-ing to pick 
it to pie-ces. 

Fred-dy did not e-ven know how to bathe when we first had him, and 
we were told to put him in-to the wa-ter once or twice a week, so that he 
could learn ; but the poor lit-tle bird cried so pit-i-ful-ly, that af-ter one or 
two tri-als we gave it up. He has since found out for him-self how to 
jump in-to his lit-tle bath-tub and splash a-bout ; and he en-joys it ver-y 
much, es-pe-cial-ly when he can dry him-self in the sun. Then is the time 
to hear him sing ! His voice is so sweet, his eyes are so bright, and his 
lit-tle heart is so full of joy, that he makes ev-er-y one hap-py who hears 




im. Then he has such a fun-ny, brisk way of hop-ping a-bout and crack- 
ig his seed, and he sharp-ens his bill on the cut-tie-fish bone as though 
2 had twen-ty pairs of bills to sharp-en in-stead of one. 

But his song is not his on-ly mu-sic. Fred-dy has al-so a lit-tle bell, 
/hich he rings to ac-com-pa-ny the Grace Church chimes ; for this lit-tle 


" dwells 

With-in sight of its walls, 
With-in sound of its bells." 

Ver-y use-ful and ver-y slim ; 

Ver-y tidy and ver-y trim. 

Once a week they make a dis-play ; 

Aft-er that they are hid-den a-way. 

Two long legs and a ver-y small head ; 

If you can guess it, e-nough has been said. 





Well, well ! It 's getting to be cold weather at 
last. There '11 be fine skating on the meadow 
before long. What shall we begin with this month 
—something new, eh ? Very well. We '11 have 


Sea-shells have been found in the Andes 
mountains full 15,000 feet above the sea ! When 
I first heard this 1 had almost a mind to declare 
that I did n't believe it. But it is never very wise 
to say that one does n't believe anything that 's 
wonderful, without stopping to inquire further ; 
there are so many wonderful real things that are 

And this is true. My friend Hawk tells me that 
the great traveler and naturalist, Humboldt, picked 
up some sea-shells at that great height on top of the 
Andes. How did they get there ? It is not prob- 
able that the ocean waters ever rose to such a 
height, but it is quite likely that the now magnifi- 
cent Andes were once very low ridges beneath the 
sea, and that the great fires which are always burn- 
ing in the heart of the earth and raging to get out, 
once raised up by a mighty effort the whole long 
and grand range of Andean mountains. So the 
sea-shells were carried up with the mountains high 
and dry as they are to-day, and the poor shell- 
animals wondered at the dreadful change, and 
sickened and died in the bitter, dry mountain air 
long, long ages ago. 


NOW, my busy young friends, in case any of 
you should come across a nice round, yellow mock- 
orange, I '11 tell you what to do with it — provided 
your grandmother already has a good one in her 
stocking-basket. If not, you should give it to her, 
and get yourself another one. A canary-bird told 

me that the way old ladies darned stockings was | 
put a big yellow ball in them, and then pick 
them with a queer sort of a shiny steel bill ; ai 
though his description was n't clear, I knew wh 
he meant. Well, you take your round moc 
orange, and force a knitting-needle clear throug 
it from the stem end, so that it will turn evenly ( 
the needle. Then, with a blunt needle, you mai 
the grand divisions of the earth upon it — Europ 
Asia, Africa and America (you see, I know them)- 
in just the right shape, and then you put in yo] 
oceans and islands, and what not, all completj 
Next you go over all the markings with a camel' 
hair brush dipped in red ink, or violet ink, Ind 
ink, or any water-color you choose, taking care 
wipe the orange off instantly with a soft, dan 
cloth. The color will sink into the markings ai 
leave the surface of the mock-orange clean. Thi 
you have your globe complete. And you eg 
make a little wooden prop, if you are ingeniou 
that will let your globe revolve on its knittin; 
needle or axis, at precisely the right angle. Afti 
awhile it gets dry and hard, and if you please yc 
can go over the markings once more with a fir 
pen dipped in the proper color. 

How did I know all this ? 

I heard a dear little girl telling another little gi 
— and "you can't think," said she, "what rea 
splendid fun it is." 


This very day the pretty schoolma'am was si 
ting on the stump in the meadow, reading alou 
to two of the big girls something from one of Pn 
fessor Doremus's addresses, when suddenly sh 
came to a part where he spoke of " parallelogran 
matic pieces of paper tinted with the hydrate 
sesquioxide of chromium." 

I heard no more. Fortunately, one of my birc 
came along just then and fanned me with his wini 
I have n't seen the pretty schoolma'am since. 

Now what in the world are parallelogrammat 
pieces of paper tinted with the hydrated sesqu 
oxide of chromium ? 

If they 're nothing but oblong, squarish bits 
yellow paper, I sha' n't mind it so much. 


You know that the barn-swallows build the 
nests under the eaves, or sometimes among th 
rafters of barns. These nests are always built o 
mud, and, usually, neatly lined with fine hay 
straw. But it seems that some swallows prefer ; 
lining of feathers. A bird friend of mine found ai 
empty nest, beautifully lined with fine white chicker 
feathers. Thinking the nest a curiosity, and no 
being a swallow himself, he pulled it carefulh 
down. (He thought it was n't cruel to do this 
because no eggs had yet been laid, but he was mis 
taken.) In a few days, he found that the swallow: 
had built another nest in the same spot, and als< 
lined with the same sort of feathers. So it is evi 
dent that at least this pair of swallows preferred ; 
feather bed to a straw bed. 

[ 74-1 




THE greatest show is not always the most sub- 
fence. Of course, every one of us took great in- 
lliyest in the big comet that rushed past the earth 

I >i June and July last, flourishing a tail that astron- 
■ iners say is millions of miles long. Millions of 

I iles 1 Only think of it ! And our little world is 
%-at a small matter of twenty-five thousand miles 
it}- so around ! 

I Yet the great Humboldt tells you (I heard the 
■ ! hoolmistress reading it aloud) that the mass or 
:! ibstance of a comet probably in no case exceeds 
Me five-thousandth part of the mass or substance 
' : the earth, — that is, if the substance of comets 
(ere packed as closely together as that of the earth. 


iji Speaking of comets, we inhabitants of the earth 
{ on't see so very many of them. Probably not 
j lore than one hundred and fifty have ever visited 
far world ; but a great astronomer named Kepler 
i'ace said that there are more comets in space than 
j lere are fishes in the sea ! 

J( I heard a little boy say, the other day, that 
: jmets were girl-stars, because they had long hair ! 
j thought it was such a comical idea that I must 
it;:peat it. At the same time, the little boy ought 

I I be told that all comets do not have long hair, or 
hatever else we choose to call the great cloud of 
ipor that streams from the comet's head. 

The comet which we have all been admiring this 
1 nnmer was, as you know, a long-haired comet, 
j,r, as astronomers say, it had a very long, straight 
,til ; but sometimes the tails are curved to one side 
\d the other. There are a few comets that have 

vo tails — or "brushes," as the Chinese call them ; 

ad some have had even more. 


L And speaking of China, I may as well tell you 
ft once all I have found out about comets. Who 
j)0 you think were the first to take observations of 
Lie comet's courses ? 

I My friend Macaw assures me that it was no other 
Lian the " Heathen Chinee." 

Long ago, when so-called civilized nations were 
i ightened at every appearance of comets, thinking 
: lat they were only omens of woe and disaster, the 
j iligent and learned Chinese astronomers declared 
liiat comets were another sort of star, and only 
ame in sight of the earth when on their periodical 
tourneys. These astronomers observed nature 
arefully, and recorded accurately what they saw, 
3 that some of their notices, made five hundred 
:ears before the Christian era, are still found to be 
f value in astronomical observations. 


>. What a difference education can make, to be 
sure ! Not but that an almond is just as fine in 

s way as a peach, but then it is n't the same thing 

y a good deal. 
i That is, it is n't and it is. 
The schoolmistress has been reading aloud out 

f a book written by a celebrated naturalist, in 

which he plainly says that the peach-tree has been 
educated out of the almond-tree. 

In the almond the large, sweet kernel, in its soft, 
smooth shell, is covered with a thin, dry, tough 
flesh that is not good for food. In the peach the 
small, bitter kernel, in a hard, rough shell, is 
covered with the thick, soft, juicy flesh, which you 
boys and girls think so delicious. And it is only 
education, or culture, or training with a view to im- 
provement, that has made all the difference. As- 
tonishing ; is n't it? 

Some almonds are most excellent, and I think 
you girls and boys would not like to see them all 
tnrned into peaches. You need not feel uneasy, 
however ; the peach-almond at the start was a very 
bitter affair ; miserable for an almond and worse 
for a peach. It needed all the bringing up it has 
had, to make it worth anything. 


The other day, little Wallie Graham (a great 
favorite of mine) came skipping along among the 
trees, half-singing, half-saying: 

My purse with bonnet-pieces store ; 
To him will swim a bow-shot o'er, 
And loose a shallop from the shore. 

I wondered what Wallie could mean, but I soon 
found out. It seems that he was reading the 
"■ Lady of the Lake." 

" It 's just the nicest story-poem you ever saw !" 
he said to a boy who was with him. " I wish I was 
a Highland chief and had a big brave clan like 
Clan Alpine ! Would n't I fight King James, 
though ? " 

Of course I did n't even then know what Wallie 
was talking of, but after he had told his friend a 
good deal about it I became almost as much inter- 
ested as himself in the story-poem, which he said 
was written by the great Sir Walter Scott. 

"But," said Wallie, "there are ever so many 
things in the poem that I don't understand. Now, 
for instance, what are ' bonnet-pieces ? ' I know I 
would n't care to swim the length of a bow-shot in 
the face of enemies and loose a shallop (that 's a 
sort of boat) for the sake of a purse full of pieces of 
old bonnets. Would you, now?" 

The other little chap told him that he did n't 
think he would, but that he did n't believe real 
pieces of bonnets were what Earl Somebody meant 
when he offered as a reward a purse full of " bon- 

The little fellows puzzled a good deal over this 
as they trudged along ; but I 've since found out 
that a bonnet-piece was a valuable coin, stamped 
on one side with a portrait of James V. of Scotland 
wearing a "bonnet" — not a lady's bonnet, but a 
nearly flat Scotch cap made of cloth. These were 
called bonnets, and were worn a century ago by 
every Scotchman, and are still worn by some of 
them. The cap which was pictured on the bonnet- 
piece being a royal cap, had a jeweled circle around 
the head. The coins were large and of very pure 
gold, so that a purse full of them was a large re- 





(Translation of French Story in October Number.) 

ONCE upon a time there was a little boy who 
was very lazy, and consequently very ignorant, 
whose faults it seemed impossible to correct. In- 
stead of going to school, where his parents used to 
send him every day, he would loiter about the 
streets, with his hands in his pockets, his eyes star- 
ing vacantly at the empty air, or clapping his 
hands, whistling, and making a good deal of noise, 
without rhyme or reason. Or else, when he was 
compelled to go straight to school, he would yawn 
awhile over his books, without making the least 
effort to learn anything, and then, folding his arms 
on his desk for a pillow, he would lay his head down 
and sleep during the whole lesson. 

One day, however, as he was squandering away 
his time in his usual fashion, an old sage found 
him, took him by the hand and led him into a large 
room, quite empty of furniture or ornament. The 
little sluggard was afraid at first that he was about 
to receive some punishment for his laziness ; but 
the old man looked so kind that he gained confi- 
dence, and when he saw him smile he dreaded him 
no longer. 

When they had entered the room, the wise man 
shut the door; then, turning to the little boy, who 
was very much surprised at all this, he said : 

"Tell me, my child, if you can, what is noth- 

The little fellow opened his eyes very wide, but 
did not answer. 

"If you do not understand me," then said the 
wise man, " perhaps you can tell me where nothing 

"Where is it?" repeated the little boy, aston- 
ished at this question. " Why, it is here, is it not? 
There is nothing in this room besides ourselves." 

"Think again," replied the sage. "I do not 
think you have answered wisely." 

The little boy thought for several minutes ; and 
then he said, with an air of confidence : 

" There is nothing here besides ourselves; la 
sure of it." 

Without replying, the old man waved his han 

" What do you feel now ? " he asked. 

"Oh, I feel the wind," replied the little bo 

" That is to say," replied the wise man, " yc 
feel the air. Now listen to what I am going to tt 
you. This air that you feel envelops or surrounc 
the whole earth. There is no place where it do 
not enter ; for it is found everywhere. You se 
then, that there can be no such thing as ?wthing i 
the whole world, since every place, and all tl, 
room, is filled up with something. It is the sam 
throughout the universe. You will nowhere t 
able to find nothing ; it is to be found only in or 
place. Do you know where that is ? " 

" Why, no," replied the little boy. " If it is n 
to be found in the world, I don't know, I am sun 
where to look for it." 

" Well, I will tell you. What were you thinkin 
of before I spoke to you ? " 

" Why, nothing." 

"Nothing! and why? Is it not, my child, b< 
cause you know nothing to think about ? becau; 
your head is empty ? Oh, how many children ai 
like you ! Know, my son, that nothing, proper] 
speaking, is only found in the brains of fools an 
the hearts of infidels ? And since God has so we 
filled the world that there is no place where we ma 
not find something good or beautiful, are you nc 
ashamed to think that in your mind alone there 
an empty space ? " 

The little boy did not reply, but he blushed fc 
shame. He thought seriously about the matter 
and from that day he ceased to be indolent or care 
less. He set to work studying with so much er 
ergy and perseverance that he became at last th 
most industrious and well-informed scholar in hi 


Sharon, Ct., Sept. 20. 

Dear Letter-Box : Is it wicked to kill snakes ? Because I hope 
you '11 say it is n't ! In our back porch a pair of robins have for two 
or three years built their nest on a bracket near the top of one of the 
pillars. In this pillar, right over the robin's nest, there was a hole 
that looked as if it might have been gnawed through by a squirrel. 

Every year we have watched the old birds feed the young ones, 
and have enjoyed the good times they seemed to have. And every 
year we have, one day, heard the old birds cry and fly about in great 
distress, and when we have rushed out we have found all the young 
birds gone. 

Now, this year the robins built their nest and hatched the little ones 
just as usual. One day, our grandma was sitting out on the porch 
asleep in her chair, when she was waked by hearing the old birds cry 
and flutter about as if they had gone distracted. She looked up, and 
there was a great ugly black snake, with his head out of the hole in 
the pillar, just swallowing whole the last one of the little birds. Then 

he drew his hateful flat head in, and that was the last seen of hit 
Father had the pillar taken down the next day, and a new one pi 
in its place. The old one was found to be hollow all the way througl 
so that the snake must have come up from the ground through th 
hollow; but we could n't find anything of him. 

If I ever come across that snake, I think it would n't be wicked t 
kill him. Would it ? The poor old birds feel dreadful, you know. 
Ever yours, Richard B — 

We think the vote of the Letter-Box would be in favor of killin 
this particular snake, for the sake of all future young robins who ma 
be born near Richard's home. But we would not endorse the com 
mon belief that every snake must be killed, as a matter of course 
Some snakes are perfectly harmless, and it is no more than fair to le 
them glide along their peaceful way, if only as an example to thei 




Washington, Oct. 1st, 1874, 
Dear St. Nicholas : I would like to answer some of Jack's 
eries in the October number. In the first place, about October 

j jig the eighth month. It was so, I think, with the Romans, who 

I gan their New Year on the first of March. 

1 And I also feel certain that the "Scotch Pig" spoken of is a kind 

i iron called "pig-iron." It is "carboniferous formation," and is 

I ported to the United States in quantities. 

^Enclosed you will find a little " word hunt," I call it. I have suc- 

'*" ;ded in finding in the word Carpet eighty-four words, all in com- 

| >n use in the English language. I would like to see if any of your 

:}r ys and girls can make more. 

, I love your magazine as much as ever, and about the sixteenth of 
ery month I begin inquiring for it, and, when I get it, it is the hap- 

r ;st hour of the day. 

1 I am going round this afternoon to get a small list of Bird-defenders 
■ you if I can, for I do not know very many children. I will send 

' the next time I write. 

L Your loving and sincere friend, Florence. 

;, Dear St. Nicholas : Will some of my fellow-readers please tell 
i. ; how to make an aquarium ? I would like to have it about twenty- 
Kjht inches long and eighteen high. Charles S. Mason. 

F. E. Basks wishes to know "what occasions the formation of the 


[ jail bubbles which may be observed on the inside of a glass in wfc 
; iter has been standing for some time." Who can tell him ? 

.Charles Corey, of Washington, D. C, asks : " Why will paper 

1 len placed near fire turn brown and curl up ? " 


,.One and All! — Somebody was born in Litchfield, England, 
rptember 18, 1709. He received his early education from one 
nnter, of whom he said, " He beat me well." In 1737 he went to 
>ndon, and wrote for the Gentleman' s Magazine. This, however, 
bought him but a small sum. One of his books was written to pay 
[e expenses of his mother's funeral. To use his own words, "It 
I is written in the evenings of a week." He was very fond of his 
^t, Hodge, and would go out every day to buy oysters for it. 
'mong other eccentric ways, he had a trick of touching the posts as 
B walked, and a mysterious practice of treasuring up scraps of 
1 ange-peel. 

/Both generous and benevolent, he made a rule to do some good 
.-ery day. Among the many amusing stories related of him, we 
id that having been invited to a dinner-party, he failed to make his 
ipearance until the party were about to sit down at the table, 
.lien he appeared at the great gate, contemplated it, and at length 
1 mbed it. When asked if he had forgotten that the gate could be 
[>ened, he said, "No; but I had a mind to try if I could climb a 
Hte now as I used to do." From an entry made in his diary we find 
: read one book of the ^Eneid in an evening, and knew the Eclogues 
j r heart. 

He died Dec. 13, 1784, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
[l Who was he? 

As some of our Boston friends have found fault with the article on 
Ice in India," in the October number, we shall have something to 
y on the subject in our next Letter-Box. 

The verses on page 73 are from the German of the poet Hey, whose 
oles are familiarly known throughout the provinces of Germany, and 
e often recited by the Prussian children. He was born at Gotha in 
"89, and died there in 1854. 

iK. B. — Thanks for the pretty jasmine. Your story with a long 
ime, though fair for a first effort, is not suitable for publication in 
r. Nicholas. It is rather too strained in style. In writing, first 
wide in your mind what you wish to say, and then say it as simply 
'id clearly as possible. 

W. F. writes: "I am at boarding-school, and my room-mate is 
pidly going wrong. He has been drunk several times, and drinks 
his room on the sly. How can I stop him ? He does n't pay any 
tendon when I speak to him about it. Had I better tell the princi- 
<i and run the risk of having him expelled, or write to his parents ? 
t either case I should feel like a sneak. I wish I could think of some 
tter plan still. 
■ Another thing, I should like to ask. A boy borrowed my society 

badge (worth $10) last week, to wear for a little while, and lost it. Is 
it right to allow him to pay me all the money, as he proposes to do, 
or only part of it, and so share the loss with him ? I know what I 
expect to do, but I would like to have your views, to see whether my 
idea is right or not," 

We can hardly advise you with respect to your room-mate, except- 
ing to say that if you believe it your duty to act in the matter at all, 
you will do wisely to choose that plan of action which will be the 
least likely to injure his self-respect, and that you communicate your 
intention, whatever it may be, to him, when you find him in one of 
his best moods, before you proceed with it. If you tell him firmly, 
respectfully and kindly what you are about to do, the necessity for 
you to act at all in so delicate a matter may be obviated by his refor- 

About the badge, we think the better course will be for you to tell 
the young gentleman who lost it that you prefer to halve the loss with 
him. It is etiquette amongst grown people, as you know, to overlook 
a loss incurred in this way, but between two boys the plan we recom- 
mend we believe to be preferable. It appears certainly so in this 

Mamie N. F. — Your letter has interested us very much, and we 
should depart from our custom and send you a full reply by post, had 
not a wise and good-hearted woman already written just the thing 
that you, and all children who feel as you do, should read. It fits 
your case exactly, dear little friend, though you may not think so at 

Suppose ! 

by phcebe cary. 

Suppose, my little lady, 

Your doll should break her head, 
Could you make it whole by crying 

Till your eyes and nose were red ? 
And would n't it be pleasanter 

To treat it as a joke ; 
And say you' re glad 'twas dolly's, 

And not your head that broke ? 

Suppose you 're dressed for walking, 

And the rain comes pouring down, 
Will it clear off any sooner 

Because you scold and frown ? 
And would n't it be nicer 

For you to smile than pout, 
And so make sunshine in the house 

When there is none without ?, 

Suppose your task, my little man, 

Is very hard to get, 
Will it make it any easier 

For you to sit and fret ? 
And wouldn't it be wiser, 

Than waiting like a dunce, 
To go to work in earnest 

And learn the thing at once ? 

Suppose that some boys have a horse, 

And some a coach and pair, 
Will it tire you less while walking 

To say " It isn't fair?" 
And would n't it be nobler 

To keep your temper sweet, 
And in your heart be thankful 

You can walk upon your feet ? 

Suppose the world does n't please you, 

Nor the way some people do, 
Do you think the whole creation 

Will be altered just for you ? 
And is n't it, my boy or girl, 

The wisest, bravest plan, 
Whatsoever comes, or does n't come, 

To do the best you can ? 

C. L. — Your verses are quite good considering your age. Beware 
of being too sentimental. God gives us some thoughts to hold and to 
live with, not to spin out in labored rhymes. That these thoughts 
will sometimes flash out, of themselves, in a true poet's verse makes 
them all the more sacred. Never start out to write about them. 

Our Dore picture on page no is from Cassell, Petter and Galpin's 

splendid edition of La Fontaine's Fables. 




Helen and Charlie F. write: " We have a lovely head of Clytie 
on our parlor mantel-piece,.and every now and then a dispute arises 

as to how the young lady's name should be pronounced. Will you 
please tell us? " 

It is a matter of taste whether to anglicize the "young lady's" 
name, as very- many well educated persons do, and call her Cly-tee, 
or to give it the proper Greek pronunciation, as if written, Clish-i-a. 
The rule for the pronunciation of Greek and Latin consonants is not 
hard to understand, and can readily be applied in this case. We give 
it in full : 

Each of the three consonants, c, s and t, when preceded immedi- 
ately by the accent, or itself ending an accented syllable, and followed 
by ia, ie, ii, io or in, commonly has the sound of sh, as Portia, Clytie, 
Horatii, Phocion, Cassius. C has the same sound when following an 
accented vowel and standing before en and yo; as Mence-ceus, Licy- 
on, pronounced Menesheus, Lishyon. 

Exception : When si, immediately preceded by an accented vowel, 
is followed by a vowel, the j takes the sound of zh ; as Hesiod, pro- 
nounced Hezhiod. 

T, when preceded by another t, and commonly in the termination 
Hon, has its proper sound ; as in Bruttii, Metion, pronounced Brut- 
ti-i, Me-ti-on. 

Z. J. J. and Others. — We do not expect each puzzle-solver to 
send answers to all the problems in the month's Riddle-Box. Hence- 
forth, when any one succeeds in doing this correctly, we shall state 
the fact. 


Edward Dudley Tibeits sends us thirty-four words, in common 
use, made out of the word Enlighten, and challenges the boys and 
girls to find more. 

Irving W. James wishes to know if any one can make more than 
one hundred and five words and proper names out of the word Per- 
pendicular. His own list, of 105 words, is correct. 

Jamie S. Newton makes two hundred and eight English words (no 
proper nouns) out of the letters in Perambulations, and Minnie E. 
Stewart makes 235 English words out of the letters in Cumberland 
using no letter more than once in the same word. 

Joseph Morse, Jr., inspired by Arthur J. Burdick's "340 Eng- 
lish words made out of the word Metropolitan," tried his hand, 
and now, out of the same word, sends us a neatly written list of 400 
words, with an extra list of twelve words, from which we can draw, 
in case we find a«y in his long list unsatisfactory. He invites Arthur 
to " see if he can get any more." 


Hartford, Cl, September 14, 1874. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Here are some more Bird-defenders who 
wish to join Mr. Haskins' army. Will you please to call us the Com- 
pany " B," if that letter is not already taken ? And oblige two con- 
stant readers of the St. Nicholas. Lizzie M. Knapp. 

Emily M. Bullard. 
, Girls. — Emily M. Bullard, Lizzie M. Knapp, Mary C. Knapp, 
Frances E. Weildon, Ella Holcomb, Hattie Chapman, Lizzie C. 
Young, Jennie A. Sunderland, Amie W. Lester, Edith A Lutz, Belle 
L. Lathrop, Carrie E. Brainard, Ida L. Thompson, Minnie B. Welch, 
Mabel Bundy, Lottie E. Smith, Louisa E. Heine, M. Annie Bostwick, 
Adelle T. Peck, Jennie C. Gale, Nellie Costello, Hatlie Bill, Jennie 
L. Penfield, Clara Pratt, Sarah Goldsmith, Annie Riley, Mary Welles, 
Lizzie C. Wright, Jennie T. Pelton, Huldah H. Knolk, Julia E. 
Heublein, Prudey V. Tounsend, Cora I. Nott, Hattie A. McKay, 
Mary J. Martin, Hattie R. Wade, Litta R. Heussler, Carrie Lillian 
Sykes, Lizzie O. Hatch, Florence Peltier, Carrie A. Humphrey, 
Lizzie E. Ranney. 

Boys.— William M. Smith, Frank I. Prentice, Leviat S. Knolk, 
Fred H. Williams, Moses J. White, Royal T. G. Brown, A. E. 
Richardson, Alfred Clay, Willis G. Braley, Harry W. Cushman, 
Charles H. Willard, Wilbur Hale, W. Goodrich, W. Poll, William 
Dunbar, Frank Forbes, Louis H. Hutchinson, Lewis Pease, George 
Senk, Edward Clav, Frederick E. Cook, Nathaniel K. Morgan, 
Albert N. Daniels, George C. Bill, Robert R. Henderson, Gussie H. 
Bullard, Frankie F. Clapp. 

C. C. Haskins sends the names of three more Bird- defenders — "a 
part of the Indiana Legion : " 

Charles W. Winstandley, Chester Winstandley and Hallie C. 
Parker. • 

Satie Satterthwaite, of Union Springs, sends the following 
names of friends who promise to be Bird -de fenders 

Winnie Pierson, Emma Alverson, Minnie Durkee, Ellis Pierson, 

{erne Cadin, Fred Chase, Therese Dulon, Estella Satterthwaite, Hel 
,udlow, Lena Robinson, Anna Allen, Minnie Brando, Mini 
Sutton, Eddie Yawger, Jimmie Hammond, Tommy Hammrn 
Mary Utt, Nellie Tompkins, Anna Mosher, Frankie Everett, Nel 
Larmon, Belle Connor, Emma Howland, Nellie Shank, Dannie O 
Hn, Willie Yawger, E. Strawn, Willard Horn 
Clara T. Foss sends the following list : 
Mattie B. Locke, Eddie J. Thuring, Arthur R. Colby, C. P. | 
Colby, Freddie M. Sawyer, Jerry O'Brien, John McDonald, Wil 
Dunn, A. E. Porter, Samuel Blake, Tracey Getchel, Charles Morr 
Robt. S. Fielden, H. W. Batchelder, Allen Risteene, G. C. Dearbor 
Henry True, Mikel Quinn, Frank Dennett, Frank Lee, Eddie Cl 
Eddie Duckworth, Willie Chase, H. L. Bailey, Olive B. Sanbcr 

ary Brown, Flory E. Rose, Annie L. Bailey, Annie S. Baha 


Came Dennett, Mary Hessian, May W. Felch, Ida F. Tibbetts, A 
die Rand, Millie A. Williams, Anna R. Carswell, Katie Hasse 
Mary A Learner, Nellie E. Jaques, Mary Cummings, Ellie Mere 
Bridget Lanner, Barbara H. Pow, Laura Aldrich, Effie Lane, Lei 
Livingston, Nettie Morrill, Mary McNalty, Hannah Burk, Char! 
Nichols, Charles H. Miler, John Cullenane, Oliver W. Titcom 
George Lee, Willie Brooks, Mary L. Heritage, Carrie C. Chas 
Lizzie E. Chase, Nellie H. Rowed, Winnie Cadieu, Etta R. Wo> 
man, Jennie F. Jaques, Nellie Maloney, Hannah Maloney, Ma] 
Hoggen, Susie M. Batchelder, Susie W. Brown, Susie E. Bagle 
Mamie L. Tucker, Cora L. Godsoe, Mary McDonnall, Susie A. O 
good, Mary J. O'Leary, Susie H. Brown, Clara T. Foss, Carrie. 
Greeves, Ann 0. Conner, Maggie E. Connor, Delia Kline, Will 
Locke. • 

Annie De Waele Hanks sends the following list 
Josie E Purdy, R. A. Van Voorhis, Katie A. Demarest, Farm 
M. Losee, Sarah Hill, Jeannette Seymour, Ella J. Rollins, Ida Va 
houten, Rebecca Tracy, Ettie C. Burge, Sarah E. Mott, Mary Co 
ner, Gussie Bartholomew, Maggie Conner, Tillie Delacroix, Jos 
Watson, Lessie Curman, Addie Young, Julia Henderson, Annie 1 
Hanks, Cornelia V. Deal, M. H. Ganse, Bessie P. Ganse, Memie j 
C. Stover, Jennie Stoppuni, Josie R. Halsey, Electa H. Spacle 
Florence H. Farrell, Josie Finkenaur, Geo. H. Bell, C. R. Burk 
Walter Wright, H. W. Dunshee, Walter B. Styles, Frank Yeur 
Jas. W. Campbell, Nicholas Schultz, Alexander Clark, Alexand 
Martin, Edwin J. Hanks, William D. Koster, James L. Hewlc 
Joseph B. Carss, Charles H Styles, Andrew De Wilde, Williai 
Purdy, John Purdy, T. H. Cleverley, F. W. Ganse and Fred r. 

Lily F. Conkey, of Chicago, sends the following list 
Alice E. Bates, Anna E. Ayres, K. L. Meech, M. A. Conke> 
Nellie French, Mary Felton, Lilla Toscott, J. F. Brace, Gra 
Douglas, Mary L. Banks, Hattie A. Montgomery, S. B. Hambleto 
Annie Scantlebury and Mary V. Edwards. 

Edwin S. Belknap sends these eight names: 
Minnie Bunner, Maude Estes, Mattie Cole, Gussie Cole, Etta Co 
Lulu Carmen, Lulu Perry and Frank Carmen. 

Besides the above, the following names have been received : 
Eddie Aston, Laura E. Tomkins, Dwight Tomkins, George I 
Way, jr., Hannah J. Powell, Burritt J. May, Valeria F. Penro: 
C. Finlcy Hersman, Clifton B. Dare, Augusta L. De Vinne, May 
Corsa, Grace Lurena, Jennie French, Lizzie French, F. 0. Newto 
Lizzie Laning, Fannie H. Smith. Charles E. Bush, Lillie D Howf 
Edith Howe, Winnie D. Wheeler, Hattie V. Wheeler, Emma 
Wheeler, Carrie A. Dana, Laura A. Wilson, LilHe J. Studbakei 
Albert Rundell, Charlie Heller, Carrie Heller and Lulu Woodberry. 

Books Received. 

Hazel-Blossoms, by John Greenleaf Whittier. J. R. Osgood £ 
Co., Boston. 

Fast Friends, by J. T. Trowbridge. J. R. Osgood & Co., Boston 

What Might Have Been Expected, by Frank R. Stockton. Dod< 
& Mead, N. Y. 

Little Folks in Feathers and Fur, and Others in Neither, \>\ 
Olive Thorne. Dustin, Gilman & Co., Hartford, Ct, 

Grim's Fairy Tales (Chandos edition). London: Warne & Co. 
New York : Scribner, Welford & Armstrong. 

A new translation, by Mrs. Paull, specially adapted and arrange* 
for young people. 

Hans Atuiersen's Fairy Tales (Chandos edition). Same publish 
ers. Translated and arranged for children by Mrs. Paull. 

Heirs of tlte Kingdom, by Mrs. Mary Stuart Smith. Publishec 
by A. H. Redford, Nashville, Tenn. 

Antony Brade, by Robert Lowell. Robert Bros., Boston. 

The Girlhood of Shakespeare s Heroines, by Mary Cowden Clarke. 
G. P. Putnam's Sons, N. Y. 

Moon Folk, by Jane G. Austin. G. P. Putnam's Sons, N. Y. 

Roddy s Romance, by Helen Kendrick Johnson. G. P. Putnam's 
Sons, N. Y. 

Risen from the Ranks ; or, Harry Walton's Success, by Horatic 
Alger, jr. Published by Loring, Boston. 

b 1874-] 





- I AM composed of six letters. Unmutilated I give 
:' he name of a city famous for fruits — grapes especially. 
I :f you cut off my head, I express the language of a 
J iailor when approaching land. Cut off also my tail, and 
' [ sound like the French word for an entrance. Cut off 
ny head and tail once more, and I am French gold; 
e hen again my tail, and nothing remains ; yet I utter a 
';ry, though I never spoke a word in my life. F. R. F. 


T n j '^5 BB jf i '=" 


! I. — On Occupations. — 1. Rome shakes. 2. Our 
:ats. 3. Ten pairs. 4. The races. 5. Come plain. 
1 To ride. 

1 II. — On Flowers. — 1. Name one. 2. Sour beets. 
. Ah, Lida. 4. Use margin. 5. Daniel nods. 6. I 
ill. 7. Thy chains. 8. Ben raves. 
I III. — On Fruits. — 1. Carts run. 2. A negro. 3. 
.epin leaps. 4. 'Tisacrop. 5. We learn most. 
i IV. — Miscellaneous. — 1. You name us still. 2. 
ister, you could. 3. I depart on time. 4. Our frog- 
men. 5. Is to linger. 6. Ma's own kin. 

C D., P. V. and R. G. 
' I. A consonant. 2. A form of the verb to be. 3. 
1 advance. 4. Disloyalty. 5. One of the senses. 6. 
. deer. 7. A consonant. H. c. G. 


Fill the first blank with a certain word, and the 
second with the same word beheaded. 

1. He lost his in trying to catch the . 2. 

There is not a on the whole . 3. It was while 

trying to that he broke bis . 4. He went to 

the and it up. NIP. 


With a city, a lake and a cape, form a word-square 
containing only one vowel and two consonants, s. T. N. 


I am composed of sixteen letters. My 14, 3, 12, 8 is 
part of a ship; my 10, 2, II, 14 is a mate; my 7, 4, 15, 

I, 9 is to find out ; my 13,6, 16, 9 is a stone ; my 5, 3, 

I I, 4, 9, 5 is a tree. My whole is a well-known actress. 

S. M. G. 
THE DAY IN THE GROVE.— A Geographical Puzzle. 

A tarty of young ladies were seated in a shady 
(island in Mediterranean sea) grove. Presently they 
saw a man coming toward them, whom one, named (a 
city in Italy), recognized as her cousin (a river in North 

(The river in North America) said he hoped this circle 
of charming and superior young ladies would allow him 
to join them. They assented to his proposal, but said 
that he must cease his (cape on Pacific coast of North 
America); and (one of the Southern States) saying he 
certainly needed refreshment, carried him a cup of hot 
(one of the East Indies) coffee, (a river in Africa), and 
(one of a group of islands west of North America). 

When he had eaten, he began to tell a story of how 
he had been chased by a (lake in British America), at 
which the (city in Italy) was so frightened that she 
finally fainted away. 

Then there was great confusion, and (cape on eastern 
coast of United States) in the company. But a young 
girl named (a city in Australia), sprinkled her poor friend 
with (a city in Prussia), while she told the others to 
keep up (a cape of Southern Africa). 

It was not long before the (city in Italy) recovered, 
when (the Southern State) exclaimed, " How pale you 
look, my (river in Australia) 1 " And the (river in 
North America) begged her to take a little (river in 
South America) wine. 

Very soon they all started for home, and on the way 
(the river in North America) tried to caress a large 
(island east of Canada) dog, who was following them, 
but so full of (islands east of Australia) was he to his 
young mistress (a lake in Central Europe), that he would 
allow no one to pet him but her. 

Soon after, as they were going over some (mountains 
in North America) ground, (a river in Siberia), a little 
sister of (the city in Italy), fell down and cried loudly. 
(The Southern State) called her (a city in Hungary), but 
the (lake in Central Europe) comforted her. and promised 
to give her a (sea in Australia) necklace on her birthday. 

Here (the city in Australia) drew her shawl tighter 
round her, complaining that she felt (a country in South 
America). They soon reached home, however, and 
having taken (a cape on coast of Greenland) of each 
other, and saying they had had a pleasant day, they re- 
turned to their several homes in (a city in New Hamp- 
shire) and peace. M. F. 







I. The ancient were not always as 

consulters wished. 2. A gate has no in 

purity. 3. He that the artist about beauty. 

4. Charles Lamb loved to praise the of a . 

5. A wise man will keep from . 6. 

thou for a writer who so to pride as to his 

manuscript because he will have no of between 

his lines ? J. I hope his will serv- 
ice, j. p. B. 


Behead and curtail words having the following for 
their signification, and get a complete square-word: I. 
Anger. 2. A bet or pledge. 3. To pilfer. F. A. M. 


My first are in pear, but not in fig; 
My next are in coil, but not in wig; 
My third are in nose, but not in chin; 
My fourth are in sleek, but not in thin. 
Poets have oft made me their theme, 
Lovely and sweet as an artist's dream, t 


First I am an animal. Change my head, and I an 
a promise ; again, and I am part of a vessel ; again 
and I am an adverb; again, and I tell what tugs do 
Change my head and curtail, and I am a river. Beheac 
me, and I am an exclamation. s. c. 


Enigma. — One story is good, till another is told. 
Beheaded Rhymes. — Amusing, musing, using, sing. 
Reversible Diamond Puzzle. — 


P 1 T 


Twine — twin. 2. Avert — aver. 
5. Airy — air. 6. Ward — war. 

3. Babel— 

7. Want — 

Curtailments. — 1. 
babe. 4. Aha ! — ah ! 
wan. 8. Wage — wag. 
Pictorial Double Acrostic, No. 1. — Sun-set. — 
S— a fe — S 
U — nfortunat — E 
N— e — T 
Historical Charade, — Earl of Eothwell, Mary Queen of Scots. 
A Riddle. — Queue, cue, Q. 

Pictorial Double Acrostic, No. 2. — Santa Claus, 

S — pecifi — C 

A — borigina — L 

N — aphth — A 

T— — U 

A — com — S 
Double Diagonal Puzzle. — Herring — Scorpio. — 


d E r r 1 C k 

p u R l O 1 N 

c h a R 1 t Y 

R E P R I S E 

Ml N U E N D 

Open inG 

Substitutions. — 1. Bruin — brain. 2. Trice — trace. 3. Hut — 
hit — hat. 4. Dally — daily. 5. Delay— decay. 6, Stare — store. 7. 
Put — pat — pet. 8. Concert — convert. 9. Him — ham. 

Answers to Conundrum Picture. — We shall print next month a 

report of the answers sent in, with 

award of prizes. 

1. Calves 

17. Dog's ears 

33. *T is distance lends enchant- 

48. Sheep's heads 

2. Buoy (boy) 

18. You (ewe) 

ment to the view. — 


49. Joint 

3. Two feet (two-thirds 

of a 19. Lashes 


50. Pupils and Irises 


20. The Hidden Hand 

34. Bear skin (bare shift) 

51. Lamb 

4. Land 

21. Ayes and noes (eyes 


35. Limbs 

52. Rest 

5. Pants 


36. Ram 

53. Tales (tails) 

6. Heel (heal) 

22. Band (on hat) 

37. Arms 

54. General wool 

7. Horn 

23. Fleece 

38. Sleepers 

55. Tulips 

8. Re-pose 

24. Skye (sky) 

39. Mussel (muscle) 

56. Teeth 

9. Sole 

25. Nails 

40. Pear (Pair of trees) 

57. Neck 

10. Bank 

26. Nap (Napoleon) 

41. Knees 

58. Ears 

11. Pause (paws) 

27. Patch (Sam Patch) 

42. Temples 

59. Locke (lock of hair) 

12. Grazing 

28. Blades (oj grass) 

43. Shade 

60. Bow (bow on hat) 

13. Cheek 

29. Hill 

44. Mouth 

61. Eyes 

14. Hide 

30. Back 

45. Crown 

62. Grass (" All flesh is grass") 

15. Hares {hairs) 

31. Ate sheep (8 sJieeP) 

46. Face 

63. Lying creatures 

16. Crook 

32. A dog 

47. Black legs 

Answers to Puzzles in October Number have been received from Allie Neill, Lily F. Conkey, Minnie Thomas, Laura E. Tomkins, 
Russell F., Mary H. Wilson, Fannie H. Smith, and Louise F. Olmstead. 






r OL. II. 

JANUARY, 1875. 

No. 3. 


By Emily Noyes. 

In the year 1761, any one looking into the sitting- 
ram of the chapel-master of Saltzburgh might 
ive seen a little figure bent over a table busily 

ratching away with pen and ink. The childish 
md hardly knew how to hold the pen, but hurried 
ong with marks and dots and strange-looking 
laracters, smeared with ink, and now and then 
.ackened with a huge blot as the pen dashed from 
k to paper with trembling eagerness. The door 
Dened, and the chapel-master entered with a 
iend, but the little curly head did not stir. 

" What are you doing, my son ? " 

" I am composing a concerto for the harpsichord, 
ipa. I have nearly finished the first part." 

" Let me see." 

" No, please ; I have not yet finished." 

The father took the paper, however, and showed 
j to his friend. They both laughed heartily at the 
:rawl ; but on looking more attentively, the chapel- 
taster said : 

" See, it is really composed by rule ; but it is 
10 difficult ; no one could play it." 

"It must be well studied before it is played," 
lid the boy. "See, this is the way it begins." 
nd running to the harpsichord, he succeeded in 
aying enough of it to show what his idea was. 

It was indeed a musical composition, correctly 
imposed, but containing such great difficulties 
lat an able musician would have found it impos- 
ble to execute it on the harpsichord. 

The chapel-master was Leopold Mozart, and the 
:tle composer, only five years old, was Wolfgang 
madeus Mozart, afterward so celebrated in the 
■usical world. 

Vol II.— 9. 

Two years before, he had stood listening at the 
fireside while his papa gave a music-lesson to his 
sister Anna. 

" Thou teachest Nunnerl, papa ; teach me too." 

" But thou art a baby, Wolferl ; wait, my little 
man. " 

But when the lesson was over, and papa gone, 
the little fellow went to the harpsichord, and, stand- 
ing on tiptoe, groped among the keys, with his 
baby-fingers stretched wide apart, till he found and 
played a perfect chord. Papa's music-ear caught 
the sound, and he rushed back into the room to 
find that his baby had indeed, all alone, found his 
way into the beautiful tone-world. 

After that, music-lessons were for him too. and 
he was never far away when Nunnerl was at the 
harpsichord, but, perched on his father's knee, fol- 
lowed every movement and tone, and often played 
the lesson after her from memory. 

The next year the family removed to Munich, 
and the two children were presented at the Court, 
and played before Francis I., the Emperor, to the 
wonder and delight of all who heard them. 

His father had only taught him on the harpsi- 
chord, but he had a little violin on which he 
played to amuse himself. Six trios composed by 
Wenzl were once brought to him to try his powers. 
Little Wolfgang begged that he might play the 
second violin part, and brought out his own instru- 
ment to play with the others. His father refused 
him, and bade him run away ; but Schachtner. 
whose part it was, called him back, and said, 
"Never mind, little man; wipe away those tears, 
and stand by me." He did so, looking over the 






musician's shoulder; and soon Schachtner was 
surprised to hear a clear, clean-cut tone striking in 
with his. Gradually he heard the music distinctly 
played, and softening his own tones more and 
more, let the little fellow play on. Finally he 
ceased playing altogether, and Wolfgang played 
on without interruption through that trio and the 
next, and until the whole six had been performed. 
He had become absorbed in the music, and all un- 
consciously threw his whole soul into the perform- 
ance, and, with flushed cheek and flashing eye, 
played on to the close, radiant with delight, while 
the tears rolled down the chapel-master's face as he 
listened to the boy. 

He had never before heard him play on the 
violin, and was overwhelmed with astonishment and 

" Little music-king thou art, my Wolferl, and 
thou shalt reign over us all," he cried, as he clasped 
him in his arms. 

Before Wolfgang was eight years old, and Anna 
twelve, they had performed at the Courts of Vienna, 
Paris, Munich and London. At Vienna they saw 
and played with the little Marie Antoinette, and 
Wolfgang shocked the fine Court ladies by jumping 
into the lap of the Empress for a kiss. He could 
play the works of Each, Handel and other masters, 
and in England composed six sonatas, which he 
dedicated to the Queen. 

Returning to France, they traveled about in that 
country and in Holland, and Wolfgang played on 
the organs of most of the churches and monas- 

One evening, being caught in a thunder-storm, 
they took shelter in a monastery. The monks were 
at supper, and did not know of their guests' arri- 
val. But soon, wonderful music began to steal into 
the hall from the chapel, sometimes sweet and sad, 
then wild and stormy ; now a single voice with 
pleading tones, again a great chorus of response ; 
now the rolling of the thunder and the booming of 
the wind, and, as these died away, a soft, clear, 
sunny strain, telling that the storm was over. The 
Fathers were in great affright ; one and another 
stole into the dark chapel to listen, and they 
counted themselves over and over again to be sure 
they were all there. But at last a light was 
brought, the strangers were discovered, and Wolf- 
gang greatly enjoyed their amazement, terror, and 
delight. They could not believe it was he who 
had played such music, so far beyond what even 
Brother Ambrose played — their fine musician. 
They thought it was a spell — an enchantment — a 
holy charm— a miracle. And when at last con- 

vinced he was a true mortal boy, they lavish? 
the kindest hospitality on the Mozarts, and bac 
them God-speed on the morrow with many 

At the consecration of a church belonging to th 
Orphans' Home in Vienna, Mozart composed th 
music for the occasion, and conducted it, althoug 
only twelve years of age. At thirteen, he went t 
Rome with his father, and there, in the Sistin 
Chapel, below the grand painting of " The Lai 
Judgment," which Michael Angelo had painte 
three hundred years before, he heard the wondei 
ful music of •' The Miserere." 

This is only performed in Holy W T eek by th 
Pope's choir, and no one has ever been allowed t 
have a copy of the music, or even to see it. Bu 
so astonishing was little Mozart's memory, that, 
his return from the chapel, he not only wrote on 
the music correctly, but could also sing it perfectl; 
— a feat which made him the musical wonder 
the age. 

He was received with the greatest enthusiasm 
Italy; made a Knight of the Golden Spur by th 
Pope ; elected a member of the Philharmoni 
Academy, and had praises and honors heapei 
upon him in the very land of song and art. 

At fifteen years of age he composed his firs 
opera. But we must now take leave of the boy. 

His works were numerous, and have made hi 
name immortal. His life was not long ; and a 
thirty-five he left to the world the rich inheritanc 
of his musical compositions. 

They are full of grace and beauty. Some 
them are sad and mournful; some running ove 
with fun and frolic ; but sonatas, operas, and masse 
all speak the genius of the great musician. 

His last work was a requiem, which a strange 
came to him and ordered. Mozart began to writ) 
it, and was to have it finished in a month. Bu 
when the stranger returned it was not done. 

" How much longer do you want? " 

" Another month," replied Mozart. 

He continued to work on it, but his health 
already poor, began to fail, and he grew feeble) 
each day. He often told his wife he was writing 
the requiem for himself, and his melancholy in 
creased day by day. He fancied that the unknowr 
person was a being from another world, and became 
convinced that he was sent to warn him of his own 
departure. Painfully he worked on with his failing 
strength, and at last the requiem was completed ; 
but when the stranger called for it Mozart was 
dead, and the solemn requiem, written for another 
was his own death-song. 


What shall little children bring 

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day ? 

What shall little children bring 

On Christmas Day in the morning ? 

This shall little children bring 

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day : 
Love and joy for Christ, their king, 

On Christmas Day in the morning ! 

What shall little children sing 

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day? 
What shall little children sing 

On Christmas Day in the morning ? 

This grand old carol shall they sing 
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day ; 

With all their hearts, their offering bring 
On Christmas Day in the morning, — 

Christ was born in Bethlehem 
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day ; 
For Christ was born in Bethlehem 
On Christmas Day in the morning. 

'•And all the bells on earth shall ring 

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day ; 
And all the bells on earth shall ring 
On Christmas Day in the morning. 

"And all the angels in heaven shall sing 
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day ; 
And all the angels in heaven shall sing 
On Christmas Day in the morning. 

''And all the souls on earth shall sing 
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day ; 
And all the souls on earth shall sing 
On Christmas Day in the morning. 

' Then let us all rejoice amain 

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day 
Then let us all rejoice amain 

On Christmas Day in the morning." 




By Louisa M. Alcott. 

Chapter I. 


OSE sat all alone in the big 
best parlor, with her little 
handkerchief laid ready 
to catch the first tear, for 
she was thinking of her 
troubles, and a shower 
was expected. She had 
retired to this room as a 
good place in which to 
be miserable ; for it was 
'«&, dark and still, full of 
ancient furniture, sombre 
curtains, and hung all round with por- 
traits of solemn old gentlemen in wigs, 
severe-nosed ladies in top-heavy caps, 
VS and staring children in little bob-tailed 
{ coats or short-waisted frocks. It was an 
I excellent place for woe : and the fitful 
spring ram that pattered on the window-pane 
seemed to sob, " Cry away : I 'in with you." 

Rose really did have some cause to be sad ; for 
she had no mother, and had lately lost her father 
also, which left her no home but this with her great 
aunts. She had only been with them a week, and 
though the dear old ladies had tried their best to 
make her happy they had not succeeded very well, 
for she was unlike any child they had ever seen, 
and they felt very mucli as if they had the care of a 
low-spirited butterfly. 

They had given her the freedom of the house, 
and for a day or two she had amused herself roam- 
ing all over it. for it was a capital old mansion, and 
was -full of all manner of odd nooks, charming 
rooms, and mysterious passages. Windows broke 
out in unexpected places, little balconies overhung 
the garden most romantically, and there was a long 
upper hall full of curiosities from all parts of the 
world : for the Campbells had been sea-captains 
for generations. 

Aunt Plenty had even allowed Rose to rummage 
in her great china closet, — a spicy retreat, rich in 
all the " goodies " that children love : but Rose 
seemed to care little for these toothsome tempta- 
tions : and when that hope failed, Aunt Plenty gave 
up in despair. 

Gentle Aunt Peace had tried all sorts of pretty 
needlework, and planned a doll's wardrobe that 
would have won the heart of even an older child. 

Copyrighted 1874, by 

But Rose took little interest in pink satin hats ar 
tiny hose, though she sewed dutifully till her auil 
caught her wiping tears away with the train of 
wedding-dress, and that discovery put an end 
the sewing society. 

Then both old ladies put their heads togeth 
and picked out the model child of the neighborhoo 
to come and play with their niece. But Ariadn 
Blish was the worst failure of all, for Rose cou 
not bear the sight of her, and said she was so lik! 
a wax doll she longed to give her a pinch and se 
if she would squeak. So prim little Ariadne wa 
sent home, and the exhausted aunties left Rose tj 
her own devices for a day or two. 

Bad weather and a cold kept her indoors, and 
she spent most of her time in the library where he 
father's books were stored. Here she read a grea 
deal, cried a little, and dreamed many of the innO' 
cent bright dreams in which imaginative childrer 
find such comfort and delight. This suited hei 
better than anything else, but it was not good foi 
her, and she grew pale, heavy-eyed and listless, 
though Aunt Plenty gave her iron enough to make 
a cooking-stove, and Aunt Peace petted her like a 

Seeing this, the poor aunties racked their brains 
for a new amusement, and determined to venture ; 
bold stroke, though not very hopeful of its success 
They said nothing to Rose about their plan for this 
Saturday afternoon, but let her alone till the time 
came for the grand surprise, little dreaming that 
the odd child would find pleasure for herself in a 
most unexpected quarter. 

Before she had time to squeeze out a single tear 
a sound broke the stillness, making her prick up 
her ears. It was only the soft twitter of a bird, but 
it seemed to be a peculiarly gifted bird, for while 
she listened the soft twitter changed to a lively 
whistle, then a trill, a coo, a chirp, and ended in a 
musical mixture of all the notes as if the bird burst 
out laughing. Rose laughed also, and, forgetting 
her woes, jumped up saying, eagerly : 

" It is a mocking-bird. Where is it ? " 

Running down the long hall she peeped out at 
both doors, but saw nothing feathered except a 
draggle-tailed chicken under a burdock leaf. She 
listened again, and the sound seemed to be in the 
house. Away she went, much excited by the chase, 
and following the changeful song it led her to the 
china-closet door. 

" In there ? How funny ! " she said. But when 
Louisa m. alcott. 

75 1 


J 33 

e entered, not a bird appeared except the ever- 
;tingly kissing swallows on the Canton china that 
led the shelves. All of a sudden Rose's face 
ightened, and softly opening the slide she peered 
to the kitchen. But the music had stopped, and 
1 she saw was a girl in a blue apron scrubbing the 
earth. Rose stared about her for a minute, and 
en asked abruptly : 
" Did you hear that mocking-bird? " 
"I should call it a phebe-bird," answered the 
rl, looking up with a twinkle in her black eyes. 

Where did it go ? " 
' "It is here still." 

"In my throat. Do you want to hear it?'' 
/"Oh, yes! I'll come in." And Rose crept 
irough the slide to the wide shelf on the other 
de, being too hurried and puzzled to go round by 
ie door. 

The girl wiped her hands, crossed her feet on the 
lie island of carpet where she was stranded in a 
:a of soap-suds, and then, sure enough, out of her 
ender throat came the swallow's twitter, the 
ibin's whistle, the blue-jay's call, the thrush's 
ing, the wood-dove's coo, and many another 
miliar note, all ending as before with the musical 
Cstasy of a bobolink singing and swinging among 
ie meadow grass on a bright June day. 
i Rose was so astonished that she nearly fell off 
sr perch, and when the little concert was over 
lapped her hands delightedly. 
" Oh, it was lovely ! Who taught you ? " 
" The birds," answered the girl, with a smile, as 
,re fell to work again. 

" It is very wonderful ! I can sing, but nothing 
alf so fine as that. What is your name, please?" 
"Phebe Moore." 

" I 've heard of phebe-birds, but I don't believe 

ie real ones could do that," laughed Rose, adding. 

s she watched with interest the scattering of dabs 

; f soft soap over the bricks : " May I stay and see 

1 ou work? It is very lonely in the parlor." 

[ "Yes, indeed, if you want to," answered Phebe, 

ringing out her cloth in a capable sort of way that 

rnpressed Rose very much. 

L " It must be fun to swash the water round and 
fig out the soap. I 'd love to do it, only aunt 
■ould n't like it, I suppose," said Rose, quite taken 
j'ith the new employment. 

' "You'd soon get tired, so you'd better keep 
,dy and look on." 
.' "I suppose you help your mother a good deal." 

" I have n't got any folks." 
, "Why, where do you live, then ?" 

" I 'm going to live here, I hope. Debby wants 
ome one to help round, and I 've come to try for a 

" I hope you will stay, for it is very dull," said 
Rose, who had taken a sudden fancy to this girl, 
who sung like a bird and worked like a woman. 

•'Hope I shall; for I'm fifteen now, and old 
enough to earn my own living. You have come to 
stay a spell, have n't you ? " asked Phebe, looking 
up at her guest and wondering how life could be 
dull to a girl who wore a silk frock, a daintily frilled 
apron, a pretty locket, and had her hair tied up 
with a velvet snood. 

'■ Yes. I shall stay till my uncle comes. He is 
my guardian now, and I don't know what he will 
do with me. Have you a guardian ? " 

"My sakes, no! I was left on the poor-house 
steps a little mite of a baby, and Miss Rogers took 
a liking to me. so I 've been there ever since. But 
she is dead now, and I take care of myself. " 

" How interesting ! It is like Arabella Mont- 
gomery in the ' Gypsy's Child.' Did you ever read 
that sweet story?" asked Rose, who was fond of 
tales of foundlings, and had read many. 

" I don't have any books to read, and all the 
spare time I get I run off into the woods ; that 
rests me better than stories," answered Phebe, as 
she finished one job and began on another. 

Rose watched her as she got out a great pan of 
beans to look over, and wondered how it would 
seem to have life all \vork and no play. Presently 
Phebe seemed to think it was her turn to ask ques- 
tions, and said, wistfully : 

•• You 've had lots of schooling. I suppose?" 

" Oh, dear me, yes ! I 've been at boarding- 
school nearly a year, and I 'm almost dead with 
lessons. The more I got, the more Miss Power 
gave me, and I was so miserable I 'most cried my 
eyes out. Papa never gave me hard things to do, 
and he always taught me so pleasantly I loved to 
study. Oh, we were so happy and so fond of one 
another ! But now he is gone, and I am left all 

The tear that would not come when Rose sat 
waiting for it came now of its own accord, — two of 
them in fact, — and rolled down her cheeks, telling 
the tale of love and sorrow better than any words 
could do it. 

For a minute there was no sound in the kitchen 
but the little daughter's sobbing and the sympa- 
thetic patter of the rain. Phebe stopped rattling her 
beans from one pan to the other, and her eyes were 
full of pity as they rested on the curly head bent 
down on Rose's knee, for she saw that the heart 
under the pretty locket ached with its loss, and the 
dainty apron was used to dry sadder tears than any 
she had ever shed. 

Somehow, she felt more contented with her 
brown calico gown and blue-checked pinafore ; 
envy changed to compassion ; and if she had dared 




she would have gone and hugged her afflicted 

Fearing that might not be considered proper, 
she said, in her cheery voice : 

" I 'm sure you aint all alone with such a lot of 
folks belonging to you, and all so rich and clever. 
You '11 be petted to pieces, Debby says, because 
you are the only girl in the family." 

Phebe's last words made Rose smile in spite of. 
her tears, and she looked out from behind her 
apron with an April face, saying in a tone of 
comic distress : 

" That 's one of my troubles ! I 've got six aunts, 
and they all want me, and I don't know any of 
them very well. Papa named this place the Aunt- 
hill, and now I see why." 

Phebe laughed with her as she said encourag- 
ingly : 

"Every one calls it so, and it's a real good 
name, for all the Mrs. Campbells live handy by, 
and keep coming up to see the old ladies." 

" I could stand the aunts, but there are dozens 
of cousins, dreadful boys all of them, and I detest 
boys ! Some of them came to see me last Wed- 
nesday, but 1 was lying down, and when Auntie 
came to call me I went under the quilt and pre- 
tended to be asleep. I shall have to see them 
sometime, but I do dread it so." And Rose gave 
a shudder, for, having lived alone with her invalid 
father, she knew nothing of boys, and considered 
them a species of wild animal. 

"Oh, I guess you'll like 'em. I've seen 'em 
flying round when they come over from the Point, 
sometimes in their boats and sometimes on horse- 
back. If you like boats and horses you '11 enjoy 
yourself first rate. " 

'• But I don't ! I 'm afraid of horses, and boats 
make me ill, and I hate boys ! " And poor Rose 
wrung her hands at the awful prospect before her. 
One of these horrors alone she could have borne, 
but all together were too much for her, and she 
began to think of a speedy return to the detested 

Phebe laughed at her woe till the beans danced 
in the pan, but tried to comfort her by suggesting 
a means of relief. 

' ' Perhaps your uncle will take you away where 
there aint any boys. Debby says he is a real kind 
•man, and always brings heaps of nice things when 
he comes." 

" Yes, but you see that is another trouble, for I 
don't know Uncle Alec at all. He hardly ever 
came to see us, though he sent me pretty things 
very often. Now I belong to him, and shall have 
to mind him till I am eighteen. I may not like 
him a bit, and I fret about it all the time." 

"Well, I wouldn't borrow trouble, but have a 

real good time. I 'm sure I should think I was 
clover if I had folks and money and nothing to c 
but enjoy myself," began Phebe, but got no furthe 
for a sudden rush and rumble outside made the: 
both jump. 

" It 's thunder," said Phebe. 

" It 's a circus ! " cried Rose, who, from her el 
vated perch had caught glimpses of a gay cart c 
some sort and several ponies with flying manes an 

The sound died away, and the girls were aboi 
to continue their confidences when old Debby a] 
peared, looking rather cross and sleepy after h 

" You are wanted in the parlor. Miss Rose." 
' " Has anybody come ? " 

" Little girls should n't ask questions, but do a 
they are bid," was all Debby would answer. 

"I do hope it isn't Aunt Myra; she alway 
scares me out of my wits asking how my cough i, 
and groaning over me as if I was going to die. 
said Rose, preparing to retire the way she came 
for the slide, being cut for the admission of bounc 
ing Christmas turkeys and puddings, was plent 
large enough for a slender girl. 

" Guess you '11 wish it was Aunt Myra when yo 
see who has come. Don't never let me catch yo 
coming into my kitchen that way again or I 
shut you up in the big biler," growled Debby, wh 
thought it her duty to snub children on all occa 

Chapter II, 


ROSE scrambled into the china-closet as rapidl 
as possible, and there, refreshed herself by makin 
faces at Debby, while she settled her plumage an 
screwed up her courage. Then she crept softl 
down the hall and peeped into the parlor. No one 
appeared, and all was so still she felt sure the com- 
pany was up stairs. So she skipped boldly througt 
the half-open folding-doors, to behold on the othei 
side a sight that nearly took her breath away. 

Seven boys stood in>a row — all ages, all sizes, all 
yellow-haired and blue-eyed, all in full Scotch cos- 
tume, and all smiling, nodding, and saying as with 
one voice : " How are you, cousin?" 

Rose gave a little gasp and looked wildly about 
her as if ready to fly, for fear magnified the seven 
and the room seemed full of boys. Before she 
could run, however, the tallest had stepped out of 
the line, saying pleasantly : 

" Don't be frightened. This is the clan come to 
welcome you ; and I 'm the chief, Archie Junior, at 
your service." 

He held out his hand as he spoke, and Rose 


l J0 

nidly put her own into a brown paw, which closed 
' er the white morsel and held it as the chief con- 
lued his introductions, 
f "We came in full rig, for we always turn out in 
yle on grand occasions. Hope you like it. Now 
11 tell you who these chaps are, and then we shall 
; all right. This big one is Prince Charlie, Aunt 
lara's boy. She has but one, so he is an extra 


At this command, to Rose's great dismay, six 
more hands were offered, and it was evident that 
she was expected to shake them all. It was a try- 
ing moment to the bashful child ; but, remembering 
that they were her kinsmen come to welcome her, 
she tried her best to return the greeting cordially. 

This impressive ceremony being over, the clan 
broke ranks, and both rooms instantly appeared to 


good one. This old fellow is Mac, the book-worm, 
called Worm for short. This sweet creature is 
Steve the Dandy. Look at his gloves and top- 
knot, if you please. They are Aunt Jane's lads, 
and a precious pair you 'd better believe. These 
brats are my brothers, Geordie and Will, or Castor 
and Pollux, for they stick together like burrs ; and 
Jamie the Baby. Now, my men, step out and 
show your manners." 

be pervaded with boys. Rose hastily retired to the 
shelter of a big chair and sat there watching the in- 
vaders and wondering when her aunt would come 
and rescue her. 

As if bound to do their duty manfully, yet rather 
oppressed by it, each lad paused beside her chair 
in his wanderings, made a brief remark, received a 
still briefer answer, and then sheered off with a re- 
lieved expression. 




Archie came first, and, leaning over the chair 
back, observed in a paternal tone : 

"I'm glad you've come, cousin, and I hope 
you '11 find the Aunt-hill pretty jolly." 

" I think I shall." 

Mac shook his hair out of his eyes, stumbled over 
a stool, and asked abruptly : 

" Did you bring any books with you ? " 

" Four boxes full. They are in the library." 

Mac vanished from the room, and Steve, striking 
an attitude which displayed his costume effectively, 
said with an affable smile : 

" We were sorry not to see you last Wednesday. 
I hope your cold is better." 

" Yes, thank you." And a smile began to 
dimple about Rose's mouth as she remembered her 
retreat under the bed-cover. 

Feeling that he had been received with distin- 
guished marks of attention, Steve strolled away 
with his top-knot higher than ever, and Prince 
Charlie pranced across the room, saying in a free 
and easy tone : 

" Mamma sent her love and hopes you will be 
well enough to come over for a day next week. It 
must be desperately dull here for a little thing like 

" I 'in thirteen .and a-half, though I do look 
small," cried Rose, forgetting her shyness in indig- 
nation at this insult to her newly acquired teens. 

"Beg pardon, ma'am ; never should have guessed 
it." And Charlie went off with a laugh, glad to 
have struck a spark out of his meek cousin. 

Geordie and Will came together, two sturdy 
eleven and twelve year olders, and, fixing their 
round blue eyes on Rose, fired off a question apiece 
as if it was a shooting match and she the target. 

" Did you bring your monkey ? " 

" No ; he is dead." 

" Are you going to have a boat ? " 

" I hope not." 
. Here the two, with a right-about-face movement, 
abruptly marched away, and little Jamie demanded 
with childish frankness : 

" Did you bring me anything nice ? " 

" Yes. lots of candy," answered Rose, whereupon 
Jamie ascended into her lap with a sounding kiss 
and the announcement that he liked her very much. 

This proceeding rather startled Rose, for the 
other lads looked and laughed, and in her confusion 
she said hastily to the young usurper : 

" Did you see the circus go by ? " 

" When ? Where ? " cried all the boys in great 
excitement at once. 

" Just before you came. At least I thought it 
was a circus, for I saw a red and black sort of cart 
and ever so many little ponies, and " 

She got no farther, for a general shout made her 

pause suddenly, as Archie explained the joke 
saying in the middle of his laugh . 

" It was our new dog-cart and the Shetla 
ponies. You '11 never hear the last of your circ 

" But there were so many, and they went so f; 
and the cart was so very red," began Rose, tryi 
to explain her mistake. 

"Come and see them all!" cried the Princ 
And before she knew what was happening she w; 
borne away to the barn and tumultuously intn 
duced to three shaggy ponies and the gay new doi 

She had never visited these regions before, an! 
had her doubts as to the propriety of her beim 
there now. but when she suggested that "Aunti' 
might not like it," there was a general cry of: 

" She told us to amuse you, and we can do 
ever so much better out here than poking round i 
the house." 

'* I 'm afraid I shall get cold without my sacque, 
began Rose, who wanted to stay, but felt rather ou 
of her element. 

" No you wont ! We '11 fix you," cried the lads 
as one clapped his cap on her head, another tied 
rough jacket round her neck by the sleeves, a thirc 
nearly smothered her in a carriage blanket, and 
fourth threw open the door of the old barouch 
that stood there, saying with a flourish : 

" Step in, ma'am, and make yourself comfortabli 
while we show you some fun." 

So Rose sat in state enjoying herself very much 
for the lads proceeded to dance a Highland flin;j 
with a spirit and skill that made her clap her hand; 
and laugh as she had not done for weeks. 

"How is that, my lassie?" asked the Prince 
coming up all flushed and breathless when the bal 
let was over. 

" It was splendid ! I never went to the theater 
but once, and the dancing was not half so pretty a.: 
this. What clever boys you must be." said Rose 
smiling upon her kinsmen like a little queen upoi- 
her subjects. 

" Ah, we 're a fine lot, and that is only the be- 
ginning of our larks. We have n't got the pipes 
here or we 'd sing for you — we 'd play for you — a 
dulcy melody," answered Charlie, looking much 
elated at her praise. 

" I did not know we were Scotch ; papa never 
said anything about it or seemed to care about Scot- 
land, except to have me sing the old ballads," said 
Rose, beginning to feel as if she had left America 
behind her somewhere. 

"Neither did we till lately. We 've been read- 
ing Scott's novels, and all of a sudden we remem- 
bered that our grandfather was a Scotchman. So 
we hunted up the old stories, got some pipes, put 




our plaids, and went in, heart and soul, for the 

:>ry of the clan. We Ve been at it some time 

•w, and it's great fun. Our people like it, and I 
jink we are a pretty canny set." 

Archie said this from the other coach-step, where 
had perched, while the rest climbed up before 
: d behind to join in the chat as they rested. 

" I 'm Fitzjames and he 's Roderick Dhu, and 

: '11 give you the broadsword combat some day. 

's a great thing, you 'd better believe," added the 
; " Yes, and you should hear Steve play the pipes. 

e makes 'em skirl like a good one," cried Will 
©in the box, eager to air the accomplishments of 
s race. 

" Mac 's the fellow to hunt up the old stories and 

11 us how to dress right, and pick out rousing 

ts for us to speak and sing," put in Geordie, say- 

g a good word for the absent Worm. 

"And what do you and Will do ? " asked Rose of 
.mie, who sat beside her as if bound to keep her in 
iht till the promised gift had been handed over. 

"Oh, I'm the little foot-page, and do errands, 
aid Will and Geordie are the troops when we 
[arch, and the stags when we hunt, and the 
aitors when we want to cut any heads off." 

•They are very obliging, I 'm sure," said Rose, 
hereat the " utility men " beamed with modest 

ide, and resolved to enact Wallace and Montrose 

soon as possible for their cousin's special benefit. 

"Let's have a game of tag," cried the Prince, 
ringing himself up to a beam with a sounding 
sap on Stevie's shoulder. 

Regardless of his gloves, Dandy tore after him, 
id the rest swarmed in every direction as if bent 
n breaking thefr necks and dislocating their joints 
3 rapidly as possible. 

It was a new and astonishing spectacle to Rose, 

esh from a prim boarding-school, and she watched 

tie active lads with breathless interest, thinking 

leir antics far superior to those of Mops, the dear 

eparted monkey. 

Will had just covered himself with glory by 

itching off of a high loft head first and coming up 

11 right, when Phebe appeared with a cloak, hood 

<nd rubbers, also a message from Aunt Plenty 

iiat " Miss Rose was to come in directly." 

" All right ; we '11 bring her ! " answered Archie, 
;suing some mysterious order, which was so 
romptly obeyed that, before Rose could get out 
:f the carriage, the boys had caught hold of the 
ole and rattled her out of the barn, round the oval 
nd up to the front door with a cheer that brought 
.vo caps to an upper window, and caused Debby 
-3 cry aloud from the back porch : 

Them harum-scarum boys will certainly be the 
; eath of that delicate little creter ! " 

But the " delicate little creter " seemed all the 
better for her trip, and ran up the steps looking 
rosy, gay and disheveled, to be received with 
lamentation by Aunt Plenty, who begged her to. 
go and lie down at once. 

" Oh, please don't ! We have come to tea with 
our cousin and we '11 be as good as gold if you '11 
let us stay, Auntie," clamored the boys, who not 
only approved of "our cousin," but had no mind 
to lose their tea, for Aunt Plenty's name but feebly 
expressed her bountiful nature. 

" Well, dears, you can ; only be quiet and let 
Rose go and take her iron and be made tidy, and 
then we will see what we can find for supper," said 
the old lady as she trotted away, followed by a vol- 
ley of directions for the approaching feast. 

" Marmalade for me, Auntie." 

'• Plenty of plum-cake, please." 

" Tell Debby to trot out the baked pears." 

" I 'm your man for lemon-pie, ma'am." 

" Do have fritters ; Rose will like 'em." 

" She 'd rather have tarts, / know." 

When Rose came down fifteen minutes later with 
every curl smoothed and her most beruffled apron 
on, she found the boys loafing about the long hall, 
and paused on the half-way landing to take an ob- 
servation, for till now she had not really examined 
her new-found cousins. 

There was a strong family resemblance among 
them, though some of the yellow heads were darker 
than others, some of the cheeks brown instead of 
rosy, and the ages varied all the way from sixteen- 
year-old Archie to Jamie, who was ten years 
younger. None of them were especially comely 
but the Prince, yet all were hearty, happy-looking 
lads, and Rose decided that boys were not as dread- 
ful as she had expected to find them. 

They were all so characteristically employed that 
she could not help smiling as she looked. Archie 
and Charlie, evidently great cronies, were pacing 
up and down, shoulder to shoulder, whistling 
"Bonnie Dundee." Mac was reading in a corner, 
with his book close to his near-sighted eyes. 
Dandy was arranging his hair before the oval glass 
in the hat-stand. Geordie and Will investigating 
the internal economy of the moon-faced clock, and 
Jamie lay kicking up his heels on the mat at the 
foot of the stairs, bent on demanding his sweeties 
the instant Rose appeared. 

She guessed his intention and forestalled his de- 
mand by dropping a handful of sugar-plums down 
upon him. 

At his cry of rapture the other lads looked up 
and smiled involuntarily, for the little kinswoman 
standing there above was a winsome sight with her 
shy, soft eyes, bright hair and laughing face. The 
black frock reminded them of her loss, and filled 



the boyish hearts with a kindly desire to be good 
to " our cousin," who had no longer any home but 

" There she is, as fine as you please," cried Steve, 
kissing his hand to her. 

"Come on, Missy; tea is ready," added the 
Prince encouragingly. 

" 1 shall take her in." And Archie offered his 
arm with great dignity, an honor that made Rose 
turn as red as a cherry and long to run up stairs 

It was a merry supper, and the two elder boys 
added much to the fun by tormenting the rest with 
dark hints of some interesting event which was 
about to occur. Something uncommonly fine they 
declared it was, but enveloped in the deepest mys- 
tery for the present. 

" Did I ever see it? " asked Jamie. 

" No, but Mac and Steve have, and liked it im- 
mensely," answered Archie, thereby causing the 
two mentioned to neglect Debby's delectable fritters 
for several minutes, while they cudgeled their 

" Who will have it first? " asked Will, with his 
mouth full of marmalade. 

"Aunt Plenty, I guess." 

"When will she have it ?'' demanded Geordie, 
bouncing in his seat with impatience. 

" Some time on Monday." 

"Heart alive! what is the boy talking about?'' 
cried the old lady from behind the tall urn, which 
left little to be seen but the topmost bow of her 

"Doesn't Auntie know?'' asked a chorus of 

"No ; and that 's the best of the joke, for she is 
desperately fond of it. " 

" What color is it ? " asked Rose, joining in the 

Blue and brown." 
Is it good to eat ? ' 

asked Jamie. 

" Some people think so, but I should n't like I 
try it," answered Charlie, laughing so he spilt h 

" Who does it belong to? " put in Steve. 

Archie and the Prince stared at one anotht 
rather blankly for a minute, then Archie answere 
with a twinkle of the eye that made Charlie exploc 
again : 

"To Grandfather Campbell." 

This was a poser, and they gave up the puzzli 
though Jamie confided to Rose that he did nc 
think he could live till Monday without knowin 
what this remarkable thing was. 

Soon after tea, the clan departed, singing "A 
the blue bonnets are over the border," at the top 
of their voices. 

"Well, dear, how do you like your cousins? 
asked Aunt Plenty, as the last pony frisked roun 
the corner and the din died away. 

" Pretty well, ma'am ; but I like Phebe better, 
An answer which caused Aunt Plenty to hold u 
her hands in despair and trot away to tell siste 
Peace that she never should understand that chile 
and it was a mercy Alec was coming soon to tak 
the responsibility off their hands. 

Fatigued by the unusual exertions of the after 
noon, Rose curled herself up in the sofa corner ti 
rest and think about the great mystery, little guess 
ing that she was to know it first of all. 

Right in the middle of her meditations, she fel 
asleep and dreamed she was at home again in he 
own little bed. She seemed to wake and see he: 
father bending over her; to hear him say, "M; 
little Rose;" to answer, "Yes, papa ;" and ther 
to feel him take her in his arms and kiss her ten 
derly. So sweet, so real was the dream, that shf 
started up with a cry of joy to find herself in th< 
arms of a brown, bearded man, who held her clost 
and whispered, in a voice so like her father's thai 
she clung to him involuntarily : 

" This is my little girl, and I am Uncle Alec 

(To be continued.) 

Merry Christmas, dear Papa ! 
Merry Christmas, good Mamma ! 

Don't you hear me knocking? 
Don't you know the morning 's here ? 
Wake up. Papa ! Mamma dear ! 

Oh ! oh ! see my stocking ! 

The spring before, Elsie 
had had a present of a 
vase. It was made of 
clouded glass, and shaped 
like a basket. From that 
day there were always fresh 
flowers or leaves or grasses 
on the little corner table in 
the parlor ; for there was 
where the vase stood, and it was never empty. 

So many beautiful things it had held; hepaticas 
and violets and apple-blossoms, and then the roses 
and wild honeysuckles of June, and then, as her 
own little garden grew to blossoming, sweet peas 
and geraniums and mignonnette. At last there 
were asters and golden-rod a,nd brown ferns, and 
the fringed gentians from down by the brook un- 
der the hill — the dear good-by flowers that staid 
so late. 

She used to get up early all the Summer morn- 
ings and have it freshly rilled before breakfast. 
But now the mornings were short and dreary, 
the last of the tender ferns had dried away out of 
sight, and the little flower-bed was filled only with 
bare earth and patches of snow. The basket was 
empty at last, and looked lonely and forlorn. Elsie 
said this was too dreary ; it would never do in the 

But Fred said, a little teasingly, "Well, El, 
what are you going to do about it, I should like to 
know ? " 

" Going to walk ; and you '11 see if I don't find 

said Edgar. 

Who cares 
ill gone, I 

something,'' said Elsi 
den determination. 

" But it's all snow, ; 
" What's the use?" 

" Oh, we'll see. The sun shines ; 
and I don't believe every thing 's 
dead. Who '11 go with me ? " 

■• Not I," said Fred. " Better fun 
for me — going to get my skates 
newly strapped, ready for the pond, 
for green things ! Besides, they 're 

Edgar had some important whittling to keep him 
at home. But Ralph wanted to go, and was run- 
ning off for his coat and cap, poor little fellow, with 
a hole in his boots. But Elsie could not take him, 
and so she consoled him with a big piece of paper 
and a pencil, and started off alone. 

She went out through the north gate upon the 
road, and then close along by the fence down the 
hill. The snow was pretty thick and hard, but 
around every fence-post was a little green island. 
The sun was clear, and the air would have been 
almost warm if it could have blown over grass 
instead of snow. How pleasant it was, after all ! 
And there, in one of the small green islands, was a 
clover-leaf, and, stooping to get it, she found an- 
other and another ; real Spring clover-leaves, with 
little white marks in them, and fresh and sweet 
when they came to be lifted out of their cold bed 
and carried in her hand. 

Her eyes were wide open now, and soon caught 




a glimpse of something green and brown and 
glossy. It was a bunch of blackberry leaves, and, 
feeling for the stem and pulling hard, up came a 
long vine, delicate and fresh, and every leaf per- 
fect. Then she found more, and the farther they 
had trailed off under the snow, the greener and 
more perfect they always were. " Could it be true 
that the cold snow has been keeping them warm?" 
Elsie said to herself, and her heart quite warmed . 
up to the snow as she gathered the long, graceful 
vines and thought of the little basket waiting at 

Then there was a wild rose-bush all bare of 
leaves ; but what pretty yellow and red stems, — she 
had never noticed before, — and on the end of many 
of them a bright red berry. How bright they 
were in among the blackberry leaves ! 

Not many fence-posts farther on, a little brown 
and yellow bunch of yarrow leaves lay leaning over 
each other in a sleepy sort of way, but quite fresh, 
and those deepest down as green as Summer. So 
the feathery little things also went on in Elsie's 
hand. Wild strawberry leaves, green and brown 
and red, lay at almost every step ; delicate grasses, 
bleached white, waved above the snow, making a 
faint fluttering sound; and soon she came upon 
something really wonderful. It seemed to be a 
bunch of white daisies, but, on looking closely, 
they proved to be the dry calyxes of some summer 
flowers, quite white and shining. Elsie laughed 
out for joy. 

On she went, crossing the bridge at the foot of 
the hill, and then creeping through the bars into 
the winter-green lot. There she found treasures, 
indeed ; great beds of partridge-berry vines under 
the snow, all bright with berries, and tufts of hardy 
ferns, and the glossy winter-green leaves. How 
could anybody want more ? How little Fred knew 
about it all ! He should go with her next time, 
and not pretend any longer that he did n't care for 
such things ; for she knew it was only pretense. 
Her left hand ached, it was so full of beautiful 
things. Next time she would bring a big basket, 
and it should be next time very soon, for she had 
found out now what a dear secret the snow had 
been keeping from her. Thanks to that little 
empty vase of hers at home. 

Just then such a soft bed of moss gleamed up be- 
fore her out of the dazzling snow. She had to stop 
short. At first she thought she would not touch 
it. — it would be too bad to tear away the least bit, 
— but she wanted it so much she soon decided it 

would be right, after all. So she laid down he] 
treasures and began to dig with both hands, bu 
finding a whole family of bugs and worms pack 
away for the winter under its shelter, she laid 
carefully back and tucked down the edges to kee 
them warm. " What a nice bed," she said. " on 
I 'd rather have it under me than on top of me, 

Then she came to a stump, all covered with lich 
ens and cup-moss and small clumps of scarlet 
headed gray moss and, running all over the bid 
roots, more of the partridge-berry vine, a little' 
greener and finer and more abundant than whal 
she had found before. Everything that grows in' 
the woods seems to love old trees so. What a 
splendid tree that must have been, and when it] 
had to be cut down, how lovely of all the little red| 
and gray and green things to come and cover 
up the poor stump so as to make things less lone 
some ! 

Elsie knew it was time to go home, but it was 
hard to get away. She liked to think of all the 
hepaticas and anemones asleep down just a little 
way in the ground under her feet, for here was 
where she always found the first Spring flowers. 
And down there, in the alders, how soon the birds 
would be building their nests again ! 

Fred was just passing by on his way back from 
the store as Elsie turned to go home. He stooped 
down out of sight to see how she would get through 
the fence with her load, — a great bunch of leaves 
in one hand, a handkerchief full of moss in the 
other, and long vines hanging over her left shoulder 
and down her back. A little mean of Fred not to 
try to help her; but he did so like to tease ! 

The first she knew of his presence she heard a 
voice behind her, as she trudged along, call out; 
"Stop thief!" When he caught up with her he 
said, very meekly, " Will you allow me the pleasure 
of carrying the winter-green lot for you, Miss?" 
But she could n't trust him with anything but the 

So the little basket was full again : blackberry 
and partridge vines hanging off and running over 
the handle, and yarrow and ferns leaning out, and 
bright berries peeping up between, and the queer 
little snow-daisies, as Elsie called the calyxes, in a 
bunch on one side. And there was so much left 
' that the pictures on the mantel were trimmed, and 
a flat dish was filled with moss for the big table, 
and everybody said it was about as good as Sum- 
mer, after all. 




By Bret Harte. 

Jessie is both young and fair. 
Dewy eyes and sunny hair ; 
Sunny hair and dewy eyes 
Are not where her beauty lies. 

I 4 I 

Jessie is both fond and true. 
Heart of gold and will of yew ; 
Will of yew and heart of gold — 
Still her charms are scarcely told. 

If she yet remain unsung. 
Pretty, constant, docile, young, 
What remains not here compiled ? 
Jessie is a little child ! 


By Florence Scannell. 

S It was Christmas Eve. The night was very dark 
tad the snow falling fast, as Hermann, the char- 
3al-burner, drew his cloak tighter around him, and 
le wind whistled fiercely through the trees of the 
■lack Forest. He had been to carry a load to a 
astle near, and was now hastening home to his 
ttle hut. Although he worked very hard, he was 
oor, gaining barely enough for the wants of his 
ife and his four little children. He was thinking 
f them, when he heard a faint wailing. Guided 
y the sound, he groped about and found a little 
tiild. scantily clothed, shivering and sobbing by- 
self in the snow. 

" Why, little one, have they left thee here all 
lone to face this cruel blast ? " 

The child answered nothing, but looked piteously 
p in the charcoal-burner's face. 

"Well, I cannot leave thee here. Thou would'st 
e dead before the morning." 

So saying, Hermann raised it in his arms, wrap- 

ping it in his cloak and warming its little cold 
hands in his bosom. When he arrived at his hut, 
he put down the child and tapped at the door, 
which was immediately thrown open, and the chil- 
dren rushed to meet him. 

" Here, wife, is a guest to our Christmas Eve 
supper," said he, leading in the little one, who held 
timidly to his finger with its tiny hand. 

''And welcome he is," said the wife. " Now let 
him come and warm himself by the fire." 

The children all pressed round to welcome and 
gaze at the little new-comer. They showed him 
their pretty fir-tree, decorated with bright, colored 
lamps in honor of Christmas Eve, which the good 
mother had endeavored to make a fete for the chil- 

Then they sat down to supper, each child con- 
tributing of its portion for the guest, looking with 
admiration at its clear, blue eyes and golden hair, 
which shone so as to shed a brighter light in the 

H 2 



little room ; and as' they gazed, it grew into a sort place where he had found the fair child, he saw 

of halo round his head, and his eyes beamed with cluster of lovely white flowers, with dark gres 

a heavenly luster. Soon two white wings appeared leaves, looking as though the snow itself had bio 

at his shoulders, and he seemed to grow larger and somed. Hermann plucked some, and carried the 

larger, and then the beautiful vision vanished, reverently home to his wife and children, w 




spreading out his hands as in benediction over 

Hermann and his wife fell on their knees, ex- 
claiming, in awe-struck voices : " The holy Christ- 
child ! " and then embraced their wondering chil- 
dren in joy and thankfulness that they had enter- 
tained the Heavenly Guest. 

The next morning, as Hermann passed by the 

treasured the fair blossoms and tended them care 
fully in remembrance of that wonderful Christma 
Eve, calling them Chrysanthemums; and even 
year, as the time came round, they put aside a por 
tion of their feast and gave it to some poor littl 
child, according to the words of the Christ : "In- 
asmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of 
these rav brethren, ye have done it unto me." 

75- ] 





(A 11 Old-faskioned Fairy Talc ) 

By Thomas Dunn English. 

Once upon a time there lived a miller by the 
ime of Jok, and his wife's name was Ko, and his 
are's name was Rik, and his dog's name was Ree, 
id his cat's name was Rorum. When his first 
did was born, and he found it was a girl, he called 
:r Jokkorik ; and when his second child was born, 

it was a son, he called it Jokkoree. His wife 

rnplained very much of these names, saying that 

>,ey were not fit to be given to children ; but the 

iller, who was as whimsical as he was tyrannical, 

ide the good woman to hold her tongue, and de- 

jred if another child were born, be it boy or girl, 

is would name it Jokkororum. 

The boy and the girl grew up, the girl being very 

autiful and the boy very ugly. Jokkorik was tall 

id slender, with eyes of a violet blue, a pure red 

id white complexion, and long, golden hair. Jok- 

>ree, on the contrary, was short, stout and mus- 

ilar, with large feet and hands, steel-gray eyes, 

ddish-brown hair that was bushy and stiff, and 

manner that was awkward and constrained. But 

1 he was ungainly he was also active and fearless. 

here was not a horse, however wild, that he could 

it ride, nor a wild beast, however fierce, that he 

ared to meet ; indeed, his father complained 

;at he was fonder of riding and hunting than of 

tending to the mill. But Jokkoree did not neglect 

s duty. He rose early and toiled late, and when- 

'er the great mill-wheel was turning he was busy. 

nd he was as kind-hearted and frank and indiffer- 

lt to praise or censure, as his sister was cruel and 

;ceitful and vain. Yet, because Jokkoree was so 

:ry ugly and had a wide mouth and a big nose, his 

[Other disliked and neglected him, and lavished 

1 her love upon his sister ; while his father only 

oked upon him as one who was strong enough 

1 help him in the mill-work, and was easy to 


Out in the forest near the mill, — a forest which 

elonged to the Grand Duke of Kleinerberg, and 

here his Serene Highness and the nobles of the 

ourt often came to hunt, there lived an old hermit 

;ith a beard as white as snow, and a body so thin 

nat its owner looked like a living skeleton in a 

:rge gown. To this hermit Jokkoree had always 

een kind when the old man came to the mill to 

eg a little flour, and in return the hermit taught 

im not only to read and write, but to do a great 

lany other things. He showed him how to use a 

vord and handle a lance, for the hermit had been 

a learned man as well as a knight of renown in his 
time. He grew kinder and kinder to the boy every 
day, and at length, finding death about to overtake 
him, gave him three things which he said might 
prove of use as he grew older : the Sword of 
Potency, the Staff of Extension, and the Shoes of 
Endurance. The sword would cut through any- 
thing, no matter how hard it might be ; the staff, 
at the will of the wearer, would enlarge or diminish, 
or change itself into any article ever fashioned out 
of wood ; and the shoes had this quality, that he 
who wore them was never tired, no matter how 
long he walked or how fast he might run, nor was 
he bent down no matter how heavy the burthen he 
might bear. Having explained all this, the hermit 
died, and Jokkoree buried him in his cave, in a 
spot which the hermit had hollowed out long before 
for this very purpose. 

When Jokkorik was about ten years old, there 
was born a little sister, and the miller, according to 
his promise, named her Jokkororum. And the 
little girl grew up to be the most beautiful girl that 
was ever seen, and to be as amiable in disposition 
as she was lovely in person. But before she was 
quite sixteen years old, the father and mother both 
died within a month of each other, leaving their 
estate to Jokkorik and Jokkoree, and commending 
Jokkororum to the joint care of her brother and 
sister ; and Jokkoree, a week after the death of his 
mother, leaving his share of the property for the 
support of his younger sister, took with him the 
sword and staff and shoes of the hermit, and 
mounting the best horse in the stable, went "forth 
to seek his fortune. 

So soon as he was gone, Jokkorik, who hated her 
younger sister because every one preferred her, in- 
sisted that Jokkororum should go into the kitchen, 
and become a scullion there, and Jokkororum had 
to submit. But, one day, the son of the Grand 
Duke, the Prince Prettyboi, fatigued with his hunt- 
ing, stopped with his attendants at the mill, and 
asked for a glass of water. Jokkorik curtsied and 
blushed, and ordered Jokkororum to fetch it, which 
she did. Though the young girl was meanly clad, 
and marked with the tokens of her menial service, 
she was so beautiful and graceful, that when she 
had retired the Prince asked who she was. 

" Only my scullion," answered Jokkorik. 

Every day afterward the Prince came to hunt in 
the forest, and every day stopped to crave a drink 




of water. Jokkorik thought that she had fascinated 
him by her own charms ; but one day, when Jok- 
kororum happened to be absent, the Prince in- 
quired after her so very anxiously that the elder 
sister at once saw her error. After the Prince had 
gone, when Jokkororum returned, her sister met 
her with reproaches and abuse, and, after beating 
her, drove her from the house, and told her never 

quired of the peasant with whom he had lodge 
what building that was. 

" That," said his host, " is the castle of the gian 
Steelbody, the great enchanter. He is the terro 
of all Dunderland, and the King would share h 
kingdom with the man who would destroy him." 

" Why has he not been killed before this, b 
some stout knight of the kingdom ? " 





■ Ik 


to come back again. And when the Prince re- 
turned next day, and learned of this, he caused 
inquiries to be made, and found that the young 
girl, after being traced into the country of Dunder- 
land, had entirely disappeared. 

Wishing to fathom this mystery, and anxious 
again to see Jokkororum, whose true condition he 
now discovered, he left Court and set out all alone 
upon his travels. 

Meanwhile, Jokkoree had gone from one coun- 
try to another without meeting any remarkable 
adventures, and, finding his purse was getting 
lighter, had returned by a different way. When he 
was about two days' journey from Kleinerberg, he 
stopped for the night on the edge of a huge forest, 
at the cottage of a woodman. In the morning, as 
he was preparing to go, he looked upward and saw- 
in the distance a high rock, on which stood a huge 
castle, with three slender towers in front, which 
glittered in the rays of the morning sun. He in- 

" It is easy to see, young sir, that you are a 
stranger," replied the peasant. " Not only is the 
castle impregnable, and built on an inaccessible 
rock, but whoever ventures into the valley around 
it falls within the power of his sorcery, and is 
obliged to do his will. He pretends to treat them 
fairly too. It is said that he sets them three tasks, 
and if they do these, he will give them all his pos- 
sessions ; but if they fail, then he changes them to 
statues of brass, to adorn his great hall. Only the 
other day, a beautiful young girl, though she was 
meanly dressed, wandered there, and was changed 
to a statue ; and when I described her to a young 
cavalier who stopped here, he went madly in pur- 
suit of her, and perished too, doubtless, as nothing 
was seen of him afterward. The King's daughter 
once ventured there, or strayed there by some acci- 
dent, but never returned." 

"And did not the King send his soldiers to the 
castle to rescue her ? " 




• It would be useless, even if he came out to 
et them. He has made his body, by magic, as 
■d as steel, — whence his name, — and swords and 

i.ces only shiver when they strike him." 

j ' I will seek this giant, and destroy him," said 


,Xhe peasant endeavored to dissuade him, but in 

n. The young man mounted his horse, and 

irred on toward the castle, staff in hand, while 
sword jingled at his side in the scabbard, as 

iugh it were calling him to the enterprise. 

[okkoree soon arrived at a high stone wall, along 

ich he rode for some time without discovering 

f entrance. At last he came to a gap where the 

nes had fallen, and thus was enabled to pass. 

I found himself in a beautiful garden, filled with 

>ice fruit-trees, parterres of 

.vers, and beautiful fount- 

s. As he gazed around 

a, he saw a huge giant 

/ancing, whom he rightly 

ljectured to be no other 

.n Steelbody himself. 

The giant, who was at- 

ded by a number of ser- 

vts, put on a friendly air, 

I welcomed Jokkoree as 

mgh he were exceedingly 

ased by his visit, inviting 

a to enter the castle. 

■'' It shall not be my fault," 

d he, " if you do not stay 

:h me a very long time." 

fokkoree understood the 

Iden meaning of these 

rds, but he followed the 

int to the rock, where a 

ge door opened of its own 
i;ord, and revealed a flight 
, f stone steps, which they 

:ended, and which led 

:m into the main hall of 

: castle. 
The youth had never even 

:amed of anything so 
, endid. The walls, the pil- 

s that supported the roof, 

i the lofty ceiling were of 

ony inlaid with gold, and 
.idded with diamonds, em- 

ilds, rubies, and other 
L ;cious stones ; and the 
,or was laid in agate and 
.lis lazuli. On either side 

the hall were pedestals, each bearing a statue of 

mze. In one of these Jokkoree recognized the 

ure of Jokkororum, and he started. 
VOL. II. — 10. 

The giant noticed his surprise, but mistook the 
cause. "Ah! I see you notice one vacant pedestal. 
It lacks one statue to complete the collection, but I 
expect to have that in three days." 

He then led Jokkoree to the great banqueting- 
room, where they found a collation ready, which 
was served by numerous servants richly attired. 
When this was over, there was a concert of music ; 
after which, Jokkoree was shown to a chamber of 
equal richness with the other apartments, and here, 
without any fear of harm, he went to sleep. 

The next morning, after he had eaten breakfast, 
which was served to him in bed, and dressed him- 
self, the giant entered the chamber. 

" I hope you have been pleased at your enter- 
tainment," he said. Jokkoree bowed in reply. 


" There is a price to be paid for it," continued 
Steelbody. " I shall be compelled to ask you to 
do me three favors — to set three tasks for you, in 




fact. If you succeed in all these, you are master 
of this castle and all it contains. If you fail in 
either, you will change into a statue of bronze, and 
stand upon the vacant pedestal." 

" I am ready," answered Jokkoree. 

" Come with me, then," said the giant, " to the 
valley below." 

Jokkoree followed him, and when there the giant 
went on to say : 

" Ten miles from this, on my grounds, are six 
stones, each as heavy as you can carry. You must 
go there and bring them, one by one, to this place, 
between now and sunset. The road is plain — the 
path is before you. I leave you to your labor, 
while I return to the castle. At sunset I will be 

The giant left him, and Jokkoree, lacing the 
Shoes of Endurance tightly on his feet, ran directly 
on the path that stretched straight before him. He 
soon arrived where the stones lay, and grasping 
one, put it on his shoulder. It was certainly heavy, 
but the quality of the shoes he wore, as the hermit 
had told him, prevented fatigue, and he readily 
brought it to the foot of the rock, running all the 
way with the greatest ease. In this way he made 
six journeys to and fro, and it was not yet noon- 
day when he had completed his labor. When he 
had done it, he knocked loudly at the great door 
in the rock. As he did so, he heard a crash, and 
looking up he found that one of the three towers 
which made the front of the castle had fallen, and 
the fragments of stone had poured down on the 
very spot where he had stood a few moments 

The giant made his appearance, with a vexed 

" So you have completed your task early. That 
gives you a chance to do the second before the sun 
sets. You see yonder tree, with golden fruit in the 
upper branches ? A basket hangs up there. You 
will be kind enough to get to the top, fill the basket 
with the fruit, and when you have brought it down 
carry it up to the great hall of the castle, where I 
shall await you." 

So saying, the giant entered the portal, and the 
door closed. 

Jokkoree looked at the tree, and found the trunk, 
which was slender and lofty, was studded thickly 
with bright steel points, as sharp as razors, extend- 
ing in every direction, rendering it impossible to 
climb. But the youth was nowise daunted at that. 
He remembered his Staff of Extension. Placing 
that before him, he wished it to become a ladder 
long enough to reach to the first branch of the 
tree. The staff split in two, and went upward, 
rounds appearing between the two parts as it 
climbed, until it finally rested where desired. Up 

this ladder Jokkoree ascended, and, taking t 
basket, speedily filled it with the golden fm 
Then he descended, the ladder shrank back aga 
into a staff, and Jokkoree, with his basket on h 
arm, knocked at the great door in the rock, whi( 
opened as before. As it did this, there was a gre 
crash, and a second tower of the castle fell. 

The giant met him in the hall, and took tl 
basket of fruit which Jokkoree offered. He w; 
very pale, and said : 

" You have performed two of the tasks ; but it 
third is more difficult. Take the sword which I ss 
you wear by your side, and strike off my head 
you fail in that, you are lost." 

Jokkoree drew his sword, and the giant bent h 
head low that it might be reached, while a mali 
nant twinkle in his eye showed his faith in th 
invulnerability of his body to all weapons. Th 
youth trembled, for he remembered what th 
peasant had told him ; but he also remembere 
what the hermit had said, and how the shoes an 
the staff had proved themselves. So he drew hi 
sword and smote lustily. 

There was a crash, and the last of the thre 
towers fell, as the head of the giant rolled upon th 
floor. At the same moment the statues changes 
into living forms, stepped from their pedestals, am 
crowded around their deliverer. Jokkororum thre\ 
herself in the arms of her brother, while Princ 
Prettyboi gazed at her in admiration. 

There were knights and dames, nobles am 
burghers, who pressed around to thank Jokkoree 
and one of the ladies, whom the rest recognizee 
and paid deference to, gave him her hand to kiss 
This was the Princess Brytize, the only daughte: 
of the puissant Woodenhed, King of all Dunder 
land. And the servants all hastened to acknowledge 
Jokkoree as their master, and as heir, by the term: 
of the three achieved tasks, to the titles and estate 
of Steelbody, Count of Aircastle and Lord Nozoo, 

King Woodenhed fulfilled his promise, and gave 
over half of Dunderland to Jokkoree, who reignec 
as king there. But as the old king had no son, he 
made his co-king marry the Princess Brytize, thai 
the whole realm might be kept in the family. 

Jokkoree and Jokkororum, who was afterwarc 
married to Prince Prettyboi, forgave Jokkorik, and 
King Jokkoree invited her to his Court, where she 
married a great noble, Count Henpekt, with whom 
she became tolerably happy. At least, the noble 
Count seemed very proud of her ; for he said she 
was of that amiable disposition that he did nol 
believe there was any one in the world, excepting 
King Jokkoree, and the Crown Princess of Kleiner- 
berg, and himself, whom she hated very intensely. 
Considering the former character of the Countes: 
Jokkorik, this was very high praise indeed. 






By A. S. W. 

'PEEPSY and Weepsy, after a pretty tough scram- Weepsy's heart is filled with dismay; timid tears 
make their entrance into this big selfish world, fill his eyes ; he turns his little round fluffy back 
d evidently wish they could go back again. on the early worm, and feels inclined to give up. 



They collect their scattered faculties, and put Peepsy puts one tender claw around his neck, 
ir heads together to consult as to what is best to and wipes his weeping eyes, but cannot comfort 
done about it. him. Weepsy droops lower and lower and lower, 



The proud blood of his forefathers stirs in smiles faintly, his breast heaves with short sighs, 

;epsy's breast. He plants his feet firmly on his and his little lamp of life goes out. 
tive heath, blinks defiantly with his right eye, Poor Peepsy ! Bereft, but plucky, he mourn- 

i thinks matters may not be so very bad. But fully determines to "go it alone." 





By Charles Barnard. 

. E was very small. Only ten years old, 
and just as tall as the top of the chancel 
rail. When he put on his white robes 
and stood up to sing, he looked like a 
young angel with blue eyes and very 
bright brown hair. He had no wings. 
This some people thought a pity. It 
was not, for then he might have flown 
away. Besides, a clever boy is better 
than two angels in a picture-book. 
On this particular morning he had no 
white robe, and he did not feel much like singing. It 
was cold and stormy out of doors, and one could n't 
be quite sure whether it was night or morning. 
The clock on the wall said five minutes past eleven, 
but that was a mistake. The clock had stopped. 
And the fire was out, and the water had frozen in 
the tea-kettle, and the cat was dead. Poor old 
blind pussy ! She had just died. Tommy looked 
at' the old cat stretched out beside the cold stove. 
He looked at the heavy frost on the windows. He 
looked at his hands, 'red with the cold, and he won- 
dered what would happen next. 

Far away over the snowy house tops came the 
sound of bells. The chimes ! How merrily they 
rang ! He listened to the jangling music. Such a 
queer old song ! Tommy took up the tune and 
sang softly : 

" God rest you, merry gentlemen, 
Let nothing you dismay, 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, 
Was born upon this day." 

. That was all he could sing ; he let the bells say the 

He was not a very merry gentleman. The poor 
old cat was dead, and the fire had gone out. That 
was not all. There were no coals, nor any break- 
fast, and upstairs — ah ! upstairs in the cold and 
the dark lay his mother, sick, feeble, poor and old 
before her time. 

" Let nothing you dismay, 
For Jesus Christ our Saviour " 

How the chimes rang out on the frosty air ! "It 
must be nearly time to go to church." Tommy 
looked at the clock. It only stared at him, with 
both hands lifted up in mute despair. 

Tommy spread a rug over the poor old cat, and, 
putting on a cloth cap and a faded coat, he pre- 
pared to go out of doors. 

He could do nothing more. The world seem 
to be quite upside down, and Christmas Day j 
out of place, as if the year had stopped with t 
clock. He could do nothing more. The dispensa 
doctor said he would call soon. He would not w; 
for breakfast, for there was nothing to eat in tl 
whole house. At least, he could get warm at tl 
church, and, by the time the service was over, pe 
haps something would happen. Surely, if it we: 
really and truly Christmas Day, something wou 
happen. What might happen he could not gues 
It would be something better, for things were qui 
as bad as they could be. 

Ah ! It was pleasant to get into the warm churc 
out of the cold wind and the snow. The cho 
were nearly all there, and the service was about 
begin. Tommy hung up his poor old hat at 
coat, and carefully crept into his white robe. Or 
of the alto boys buttoned it up behind for him, ar 
gave him his musicJoook. There was a little st 
among the white-robed men and boys, and the 
they formed in a procession and marched two an 
two through a small door into the great churcl 
How the loud organ pealed ! The music seeme 
to thrill him through, and he took his seat in rt 
choir with trembling knees. How full the church 
Every seat seemed to be taken, and he looke 
around on the great company in a kind of du 
surprise. It was in all the papers, but Tomm 
did n't know it, that the famous boy soprani 
Thomas Sterry, would sing that morning, an 
many had come to hear him. As for Tomm 
Sterry, he knew there was a solo somewhere in th 
service ; he had studied it carefully, but now h 
almost forgot where it came or what it was about 

Small time for thought. The choir stood U{ 
and in a moment away they went in the openin 
anthem. How Tommy's voice rolled out the sonc 
rous Latin : 

" Gloria in excelsis Deo ! " 

It was a delight to spring through the lively measure 
of Mozart's great Twelfth Mass, and Tommy too' 
up the high sustained notes in the soprano part a 
if he were really an angel, after all. There was 
great picture of an angel, standing on a gold clom 
and with a trumpet in his hand, in one of the win 
dows, and one lady in the congregation thought i 
looked just like Tommy. After the anthem, th 
service began and went on in the usual fashion ; 
Tommy forgot all about the dead cat, and th' ta 



akfast that he did not eat, and he almost forgot 
mother. The music seemed to earn- him away 
another country, where there was no snow, nor 
iness, nor poverty, nor tears. He thought 
,v many months his mother had denied herself 
■rything that he might learn to sing : and now 
it he could sing, perhaps the church people 
uld give him a little something, for really he 
s so very, very poor ! The church people were 
[1 able to pay something, and they ought to do 

He must speak to them on the morrow 

Dne of the singers whispered in 
ear : 

'Look out, Tommy ! Here comes 
! arsolo." 

How the or,gan caught up the bril- 
it music ! He had hardly time 
open his book and stand up before 
I symphony was over. How his 
mry voice rang through the great 
arch ! The people listened in 
?nce while he sang from old Han- 
i's "Messiah : " 

" Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice greatly, 
O daughter of Zion ! " 

>w like ' ' a robin racing down a 
Dok of music" he ran through the 
arkling measures ! The music 
remed to spring in long roulades 
the word " rejoice," as if it were 
3 glad for words. 

" O daughter of Zion ! 
Rejoice greatly, shout, 
O daughter of Jerusalem ! 
Behold thy King Cometh unto thee " 

" Guess I 'm dead. It 's heaven, is n't it ? " 

The lady smiled. " No ; it 's only my house. 
You fainted away in the church, and I brought you 
here in my carriage." 

"Oh! I remember. It's Christmas. Well, 
you see, I did n't have any breakfast, and the cat 
is dead, and mother 's sick, and the church was so 
warm, and there was so much music, and I was 
tired, and " 

" We will not talk about that now. You will 
not sing in that church again." 

Then it chane 
I 'eeter measures : 

:d to smoother, 

" He is the righteous Saviour, 
And he shall speak peace." 


,ow softly Tommy's limpid voice gave the words : 

" Peace! And he shall speak Peace " 

What was the matter ? Had the organ stopped? 
the church seemed to swim round and round, and 
c e angel in the window was dancing madlv ! 



Do you feel better, Tommy ? " asks a pretty 
idy bending over him. 
" Better ! Where is this ? " 
" This is my home. Do you feel better now ? " 
Such a soft bed ! And the room — it was so 
autiful ! And the lady ! Who was she ? 

" Why not ? I like to sing." 

" You are to sing in our church after this. I 'm. 
the organist's wife, and we are going to give you 
four hundred dollars a year, and " 

" Four hundred dollars ! What an awful lot of 
money. Oh ! now you 're joking a fellow 'cause 
it's Christmas Day." 

"Oh ! Tommy's better, I'm sure. Come, my 
boy, sit up. There '5 your breakfast." 

It was all a piece of magic. A girl brought in a 
tray with such a noble breakfast that Tommy 
did n't really know where to begin. The lady took 
the tray and the girl arranged the pillows, and the 
royal feast began. 




The lady talked and even sang a Christmas song 
called : 

" The boar is dead, 
Lo ! here is his head." 

Tommy laughed till he cried, for it was a most 
amusing song. But, in the midst of the festivity, 
he stopped abruptly. 

" By cricky ! I forgot. There 's mother all this 
time, and she 's had no breakfast." 

" Such language, Tommy ! I am surprised ! " 

" I forgot, ma'am. It slipped out 'fore I knew 
it. I don't use such words much ; but, then, 
mother's sick, you know." 

" No ; I did n't know. Let us go home and see 

So they did. They rode away in a beautiful cov- 
ered sleigh, and soon reached Tommy's home. 
And they made a fire and thawed out the tea-kettle, 
and started the forlorn clock, and called a nurse 

ing service every day in the year. He even pai 
Tommy a part of the salary in advance, that h 
might help his mother. 

Then they went to the piano and sang Christ 
mas carols — "The Manger Throne," "I Sa' 
Three Ships," "The Holly and Ivy," and man 
others quite as beautiful. Then they told Tomnv 
how in England on Christmas Day the children 
dressed in thick shoes and warm clothing, go fron 
house to house and stand out in the snow singinj 
carols ; and how the good people open their door 
and invite them in to partake of good cheer 
Last of all, Tommy started to walk home alone 
He had not gone far before the bells in St. Mary'; 
— his church now — began to chime, and, with 
happy heart, he sang aloud with them : 

" God rest you, merry gentlemen." 

Then he turned back softly till he came to the 


for Tommy's mother, and brought Christmas Day 
right into the wretched house. Tommy could n't 
believe it all. If it had not been for the poor, old 
cat folded up in her rug, Tommy could not have 
believed that he had passed through such a doleful 
experience that morning. All seemed so bright 
now, that the past was like a dream. 

Then they made Mrs. Sterry comfortable, and 
the lady took Tommy away again in her sleigh. 
This time the organist was at home, and he then 
and there explained to Tommy how selfish the 
church people had been in refusing to pay him 
anything for singing so long, and that now it was 
all changed, and he was to be first soprano in the 
boys' choir at St. Mary's, and that they would pay 
him a fine salary, and that he was to sing at morn- 

good organist's house, and there, all alone 
snowy street, he sang a good old Christmas 
for his heart was full of peace and gratitude. 

in the 

' God bless the master of this house, 
Likewise the mistress too, 
And all the little children 
That round the table go. 

1 And all your kin and kinsfolk 
That dwell both far and near, 
I wish you a merry Christmas 
And a happy New Year." 

: heard 

And the people in the houses round about '. 

the music in their dreams and said : 
" Hark ! The angels are singing ! " 
But the watchman in his big coat knew it was 

only Tommy, the soprano. 





By Fred Beverley. 

[t is not strange that Africa, the home of the 
rilla and hippopotamus, should possess the most 
rious specimens of the great class of birds ; for it 
s been found to contain within its tangled jungles 
p rarest and most grotesque forms of animal life, 
ough we must except the island of Australia, 
-lere the laughing jackass and the kangaroo are 

One of the most interesting and attractive fam- 
,>s of birds is that of the hornbill, one species of 
lich is shown in the illustration on the next page, 
though this bird is found in India, it is much 
ure abundant in Africa. 

If we may believe report, the bill of the hornbill 
nearly one-fourth the length of its body. The 
.1 is very long, curved, deep and thin, and has a 
lmet upon its crown, of various shapes and sizes ; 
d this helmet is used to give to many species 
eir specific, or proper, names. Thus, there is 
e Buceros bicornis, or two-horned hornbill ; the 
'iceros rhinoceros, or rhinoceros hornbill, so called 
:>m the immense helmet resembling the horn of a 
linoceros. Buceros is the genci'ic name applied to 
iem from some peculiarity they all possess in 
mmon; the specific, or individual, names being 
rived from the shapes of their helmets. 
Though seemingly heavy and unwieldy, the bill 
the hornbill is very light, being composed of 
{ht cellular tissue, resembling in this respect the 
ull of the elephant ; and the walls of thin bone 
e so fragile, that in dried specimens it may be 
ushed in the hand. The edge of the mandibles, 
• beaks, are very sharp, frequently breaking off 
id being renewed. It is said that the age of the 
j rd may be ascertained from the wrinkles on its 
||J1, as the age of a cow is sometimes told from the 
rinkles around her horns. 

Before proceeding further, it may be well to 
Dtice a family of birds, inhabiting South America, 
"ten confounded with the hornbills, from their re- 
:mblance. These are the toucans. They are 
3nfined to the warmer portions of the New World, 
; the hornbills are to those of the Old. Their 
ills are large, of the same structure, but lack the 
elmet ; they are brighter-colored and more gaudy 
f plumage. Their voices are loud and harsh, and 
in be heard a long way. 

It is from the cry of the Brazilian species, " tou- 
mo," that they derive their name. When feed- 
lg, they post a sentinel. They have a habit of 

sitting upon the topmost branches of trees, chatter- 
ing, lifting their heads at regular intervals, clashing 
their bills together, and crying out so loudly as to 
be heard at the distance of a mile. From this the 
natives have given them the name of " preacher 
birds." They have great antipathy to any bird 
uglier than themselves, and will mob an owl with 
the zest of crows, nearly frightening the poor bird 
to death with their clashing beaks and loud cries. 

To return to our friends, the hornbills. From 
the great size of their bills, they cannot walk easily 
upon the ground, but hop along awkwardly. The 
trees are their homes, and they hop from limb 
to limb with great ease, climbing to the tree-tops, 
where they remain for hours shouting gleefully in 
their bravest tones. 

They feed upon pulpy fruits, small animals, rep- 
tiles and insects, and make their nests in hollow 

The largest species is the rhinoceros hornbill, 
which has a stretch of wing of about three feet, and 
a bill ten inches in length. The general color of 
this bird is black, the tail tipped with white. The 
bill is black at the base, reddish in the middle, and 
yellow tipped. 

The most attractive species, as to plumage, is 
the crested hornbill, which has a crown of feathers, 
like the spread crest of a cockatoo, and a long, 
beautiful tail. 

But the most interesting species is one noted, not 
for its plumage, but for a habit of nesting and liv- 
ing peculiarly its own. This is the red-billed horn- 
bill, the Buceros erythrorhynchus of naturalists. 
We have been told by Livingstone, the African ex- 
plorer, that this bird breeds, like the other mem- 
bers of its family, in hollow trees ; that it makes 
its nest in holes in the trunks of these trees ; that 
the female lines its nest with feathers from her own 
body, and lays four or five eggs, white, and of the 
size of pigeons' eggs. 

In this there is nothing remarkably noteworthy; 
but we are astonished when we read further and 
find that, after the nest is prepared to the satisfac- 
tion of the female, she is shut up a close prisoner 
for weeks ; that the entrance to the hole is plastered 
over with mud, until only a little slit is left, three 
or four inches long and half an inch wide — just 
large enough to admit the beak. 

The male bird, who has walled up the hole, feeds 
the female through this slit until the young are 




hatched and fledged — a period of eight or ten 
weeks. In this time the female has become very 
fat, and is often hunted out and eaten by the negroes 
of the country, who esteem her a great delicacy. 

Sometimes the female hatches out two young 
ones, that are nearly able to fly before the other two 
appear. Then, with the two older birds, she leaves 
the nest and walls in the younger ones, which are 

prison her, and becomes lean and emaciated in hi 
labor of love, in procuring food for her and theH 
little ones during those two long and weary month I 
It is more than probable that the object sought I 
to prevent the entrance of noxious reptiles, whkP 
could easily destroy mother and young, did n< 
that formidable bill so effectually fill the hole. Bi 
one thing is certain, the mother hornbill is oblige; 


fed, through the slit, by their father and mother 
until able to take care of themselves. 

Many writers have speculated upon the reason 
for this peculiar style of hatching out and bringing 
up the young hornbills ; but, although they can- 
not tell exactly why the plan is adopted, there is 
no doubt but that the old birds know what they 
are about. 

It is certainly not to prevent the escape of his 
mate that the male works so industriously to im- 

to stay at home and attend to her domestic duties 
although she must be very different from almo; 
any other bird if she does not, of her own free 
will and desire, hatch out her little ones and tak 
care of them until they can look out for them 

If we all attended to our duties as earnestly an 
conscientiously as mother-birds (and sometime 
father-birds too) attend to theirs, it would be bette 
for most of us. 





(Some Christinas Stories of " Ye Olden Time.") 

By Hezekiah Butterworth. 

ROBABLY from very ear- 
ly times — we suspect 
even before "the gold- 
en prime of good Ha- 
roun al Raschid," un- 
der whose delightful 
caliphate most of the 
wonderful things of 
which you read in the 
"Arabian Nights" are 
supposed to have taken 
place, or to have been 
first related — it has 
been all the fashion 
with story-tellers and 
ballad-makers to reprc- 
:nt favorite kings as putting on various disguises, 
id playing clever, good-humored jokes on the 
umblest of their subjects. Nearly all of the Eng- 
ih kings are so represented, and there were no 
ories that the people loved better to tell than these, 
hey were the old Christmas stories, told by the 
ule-log in the bleak old days of the English 
arons, when swords and helmets were thick and 
ooks were few. Thus we have the tales of King 
lenry VIII. and the Miller of Dee ; of good Duke 
hilip of Burgundy and Sly the Tinker ; of James I. 
nd the Tinker; of William III. and the Forester, 
nd so on all through the reigns of the Scottish 
ames and English Georges. Some of these stories 
?ere fiction, like that of 

"Old King Cole, 
That jolly old soul." 

iut most of them were true. The wandering 
larpers used to relate them in verse ; and as de- 
ightful as the bringing in of the Yule-log and the 
nistletoe, the fiery sport of "snap-dragon," or the 
ollicking play of "blind man's buff," were the 
loliday tales of the funny doings of these merry old 
English kings. 
One of the oldest of these ballad stories relates to 

King Henry and the Miller, 
ind starts off briskly with : 

"Henry, our royal king, would ride a-hunting 
To the green forests so pleasant and fair " 

Hie forest was Sherwood, where once lived Robin 

Hood and his merry men. King Henry (Plant- 
agenet) was young then, and he took with him a 
great retinue of young princes and nobles. So the 
horses cantered over the hills of Nottingham, and 
plume after plume danced out of sight among the 
green leaves. The King separated himself from 
the gay party, and dashed off with spirit into the 
heart 'of the forest. 

At last the day began to decline, and the shadows 
grew long and thick in all the forest. The King 
blew his horn. There was no answer. He was 

He rode on. As the forest grew dark, he heard 
the flow of water, and discovered a cool stream just 
reflecting the light of the rising moon. Presently 
he heard a mill-wheel. Then his heart took cour- 
age. He soon reined his horse before the door of 
the mill. 

" Good miller," said the King, " is this the road 
to Nottingham ? " 

" I guess you know as well as I," answered the 
miller. " You look as though you had been there 

" Who do you take me for ? " asked the King in 

" For some gentleman thief or other ; no honest 
man, sure." 

" But I must lodge with you to-night. I have 
gold at hand." 

At the word " gold" the miller began to prick 
up his ears. Just then the miller's wife, a large, 
fat, brawling woman, looked over her husband's 
shoulder. She too had heard the word "gold," 
but was still cautious. 

She delighted in the sweet name of Bymytroth. 
No one delights in that name now. 

" Are you sure that you are no runaway ? " piped 

" I am no runaway," said the King. 

" Then show us your passport," said Bymytroth, 
who had a very logical turn of mind." 

" From whom ? " 

" From the King ! " 

The King had no passport, and still finding By- 
mytroth suspicious and defiant, he began to flatter 
her, and he bowed so very politely that she was at 
last induced to say : 

" You may come in." 

Bymytroth became very much pleased with the 




King, so much so that she told him that, if he was 
tidy enough, he might sleep with her own son. 

" If the King would never hear of it, I would get 
you some venison for supper," said Bymytroth. 

hungry, and it seemed a concession to the cause c 
the suffering poor. 

Next in order comes a very clever story of Kin 
John and 

"the king bowed so politely. 

"We do rob the King's forest of venison some- 
times. Will you promise ? " 

" Yes, on my word," said the King ; " the King 
shall never know any more about it than he knows 

The King was very hungry after his anxiety and 
long ride, and as his poor, weak human nature was 
quite like that of some other men whose heads were 
never topped with a crown, he made a large sup- 
per off of the unlawful venison. 

"You will never tell about this?" said the 
cautious Bymytroth, looking keenly at her guest. 

" The King shall be none the wiser for this from 
me," said the King, looking very profound. 

With this strong assurance, Bymytroth slept very 
comfortably that night, but was awakened in the 
morning by a right royal retinue at the door. The 
miller and his wife then began " shaking and 
quaking," to use the graphic language of the old 
song, and the poor miller kneeled down and shut 
his eyes, we suppose, in order to decently make 
his last prayer. But — how charmingly it all ends ! 
— the King, 

" His kind courtesy for to requite, 
Gave him a living and dubbed him a knight." 

The above story was in its day very popular, be- 
cause the game laws of England at that time were 
very severe and very hard on the poor. It showed 
what the King himself would do when he was 

The Jolly Old Abbot of Canterbury. 

The minstrels used to sing of the former i 
" Good King John," but the poets seem to be th 
only people who have had anything to say of Kin 
John's goodness. His forgiveness of the crafty ol 
Abbot of Canterbury, we are sorry to note, is th 
only good thing we ever heard of him, and we ai 
a little suspicious that this incident may be- to 
good to be true. 

The Abbot of Canterbury was a thrifty old pn, 
late, a lover of good cheer, and he lived rig! 
sumptuously, as the old prelates were wont to li\ 
during the reign of the Plantagenet kings. Kin 
John heard of the Abbot's easy estate, and it mac 
him very uneasy, for, being a sadly jealous mai 
he was always unhappy when he thought th] 
another was better off than himself. 

One day, there came to King John certain bus 
people, who said : 

" Do you know how many servants the Abbi 
of Canterbury keeps in his house ? " 


" An hundred." 

" That is more than I keep in a palace ! " 

" Do you know how many gold chains the Abb; 
has to hang over his coats of velvet ? " 



" That is more than can be found among tl 
jewels of the Crown ! I will visit the Abbot < 
Canterbury. He has lived so long in luxury th 
he has lived long enough." 

Then King John put on a terrible face, whk 
must have been terrible indeed, for at the best 1 
wore no merciful countenance, and he rode ovi 
to the grand old Abbey, and summoned befo 
him the luxury-loving Abbot. 

"How now, Father Abbot?" said the Kit 
sternly. " I hear that thou keepest a better hou 
than I. That, sir, is treason — high treason again! 
the crown." 

"My liege," said the Abbot, "I never spei 
anything but what is my own. I trust that yo; 
Grace would do me no hurt for using for the cor 
fort of others what I myself have earned." 

"Yes, Father Abbot, thy offence is great. Tl 
safety of the kingdom demands thy death, ai 
thou shalt die. Still, as thy learning is great, ail 
as thou art esteemed a man of wit, I will give tin 
one chance of saving thy life." 

" Name it, my liege." 




When I come again to this place, and stand 
I Dng my liegemen with my crown on my head, 
tu shalt answer me three questions." 

'Name them, my liege." 

' Thou shalt tell me, first, how much I am 
vth, and that to a single penny. 

' Thou shalt tell me, secondly, how long a time 
jj/ould require for me to ride around the whole 
1 rid. 

I, ' Thou shalt tell me, thirdly, what I am think- 
■j ." 

' 0, these are hard questions — hard questions 
4 my shallow wit," said the Abbot, with a fallen 

;. But if you will give me three weeks to con- 
t sr them I think I may answer your Grace. " 
|j ' I give thee three weeks' space ; that is the 
I gest thou hast to live. If then thou canst not 
I ;wer well these questions three, thy lands and 
''livings shall become the Crown's." 
'The King departed, and the poor Abbot sat 
i-'rm with a clouded brow and a heavy heart, and 
1 5 at his wit's end. 
i \t last, in utter despair of forming any answer 

nself, he ordered his horse, and rode over to 

I ford and Cambridge to consult the doctors. 
; :re he tarried many days, but 

" Never a doctor was there so wise, 
That could with his learning an answer devise. 

.With a heart more heavy, and a brow more dark, 

"Home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold." 

As he was riding slowly, near the grounds of 
5 old, old abbey, and marked the golden crosses 
earning above the great shadows of the trees, 
p d reflected that he soon would cease to enjoy the 
easures of the place, his head dropped upon his 
^east, and the tears wet his cheek. As he dis- 
counted, he saw a jolly shepherd — one of his own 
irvants — going to the fold. 

p " How now, my Lord Abbot?" said the shep- 
:rd; " right welcome you are home. What news 

I I you bring from the King? " 

' " Sad, sad news, shepherd. I have but three 
Uys more to live, if I do not answer him questions 

p " And what are the questions three ? " 
' " First, to tell him, as he stands in yon place 
:nong his liegemen with the gold crown on his 

:ad, what he is worth, and that to a single penny. 
I " Secondly, to tell him how long it would take 
B m to ride around the world. 
s "Thirdly, to tell him what he is thinking." 

"Then cheer up, cheer up, my Lord Abbot. 

id you never hear that a wise man may learn wit 

a fool ? They say I much resemble you. Lend 

me your gown and a horse and a serving-man, and 
I will stand in your place and will answer the 
King's questions." 

The Abbot brightened a little at this, and 
answered : 

" Horses and serving-men thou shalt have, and 
sumptuous apparel, with crozier and mitre, and 
rochet and cope, fit to appear before the Roman 
Pontiff himself." 

The appointed day came, and the King stood in 
the appointed place with his golden crown on his 
head and a great retinue of nobles glittering around 
him. The supposed Abbot soon made his appear- 
ance, and took his position in the presence of the 

" Now welcome, Sir Abbot," said the King. 


"Thou dost faithfully keep the appointed day.. 
Now answer correctly my questions three, and 
thou shalt save both thy life and thy livings." 

" Well, my liege, but to answer correctly I must 
speak the truth." 

' ' And that thou shalt. Now tell me what I am 
worth, and that within a single penny." 

" Twenty-nine pence. Judas betrayed his Lord 
for thirty, and since thou art willing to betray the 
Church, I think that thou must be one penny the 
worse than he." 

The King received the answer with unexpected 
good humor. He laughed heartily and exclaimed : 

"Why, why, my Father Abbot, I did not think 
that I was worth so little ! 

" And now, jolly priest," he continued, "tell me 
just how long it would take me to ride around the 




" You must rise with the sun, and ride with the 
same until it riseth on the next morning, when you 
will have ridden the circuit of the world in just 
twenty-four hours." 

The King laughed again, and said : 

" I did not think I could do it so soon. But now 
comes the question that will put your wits to the 
test. What do I think?" 

" You think I am the Abbot of Canterbury, but 
I am not. I am a poor shepherd, and that you 
may see (throwing off his cloak), and I have come 
to beg pardon for the Abbot and for myself." 

Then the King laughed more heartily than ever, 
and he sent the jolly shepherd back to his master 
■with a full and free pardon. 

" Four nobles a week 

Will I give to thee, 
For this merry jest 

Thou hast shown unto me. 
And tell the old Abbot 

When thou com'st home, 
Thou hast brought him a pardon 

From good King John." 

Skipping over a dozen good stories of kings who 
played the part of a peasant in some generous way 
■or other, we come to 

■*' Jamie the Scotchman " and the Tinker. 

In introducing this King, the old holiday ballad- 
singer used to say : 

"A pleasanter monarch never was known." 

He, too, went to hunt " the swift fallow deer," 
and, like other monarchs of old English history, 
he cast himself loose from the royal hunting party 
in search of an adventure. He at last came to an 
ale-house, in front of which was a tinker, doubtless 
mending a kettle." 

" My good friend," said the King, " what is the 
news in these parts ? " 

" I know of no news, except that the King is 
hunting on the border." 

" That is news, indeed," said the King. 

" I wish I might be so happy as to see His High- 
ness," said the tinker; "for though I've roamed 
the countries around for many years, I never saw a 
king in my life." 

Then, as the old ballad runs, 

"The King, with a hearty, brisk laughter, replied: 
' I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride, 
Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring 
To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign King.' " 

" But how shall I know him from the nobles 
surround him ? " asked the tinker. 


"The King's head will be covered; the head 
of the nobles will be bare." 

Then the tinker mounted the horse, 

" and likewise his sack, 

His budget of leather and tools on his back," 

and rode away, greatly pleased with the idea the 
he was to see the King. 

They came at last to a beautiful spot in the gree 
wood, where the nobles were reclining after tb 
chase. As soon as they made their appearand 
the latter arose, and gathered around them wit 
uncovered heads. 

The tinker tapped the King on his shoulder, an 
whispered in his ear : 

"They all look very gay; but which of them 
the King ? " 

The King laughed most heartily again, a 
replied : 

" The man who wears his hat." He then addei 
" Why, my good fellow, seeing that all the rest ; 
uncovered, it must be you or I ! '" 

There was a short silence. The poor tinker 
heart quaked within him, and 

" With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground." 

He rose upon his knees at last, and begged tl 
King for mercy. 

" What is your name ? " asked the King. 

"John o' the Dale. I am a mender of kettles 

" Rise up, Sir John o' the Dale," said the Kin 
" I will make thee a knight." And 

" Sir John o' the Dale, he has land, he has fee; 
At Court of the King who so happy as he ? 
Yet still in his hall hangs the tinker's old sack, 
And the budget of tools he bore on his back." 

There is another and more famous story of 
monarch and a tinker. You may have heard of 
how Christopher Sly, as Shakespeare named tl" 
odd character in the introduction to " The Tamirj 
of the Shrew." woke one fine morning to find had 
self a grand gentleman. Here is the veritable a 
count of 

The P'rolicsome Duke and Sly the Tinke 

There was to be a grand ducal wedding 
Bruges, in Burgundy, and the festivities were 
last a week. Philip the Good was to marry Ek 
nora, sister to the King of Portugal. 

Christopher Sly was a tinker ; and a tinker w 
a man who used to "roam the countries arounc' 
crying "Old brass to mend?" and who repairt 
the good people's broken pots and kettles. 

Christopher heard of the great wedding in 




■ /els, and came to Bruges to enjoy the merry- 
king with the rest. 

ie had only one pair of breeches, and they were 
de of leather. He deemed them suitable for all 
asions. He had never arrived at the luxury of 
:oat, but in its place he wore a large leather 

I - on, which covered his great shoulders like the 
nor of a knight. 
Christopher had one bad habit. He loved ale 

weather chilled not only his blood but his spirits. 
He wandered about in the storm, going from ale- 
house to ale-house, and receiving hospitality, until 
the town of Bruges seemed to revolve around him 
as its inhabitants around the Duke. Still he plod- 
ded away through the streets, longing to see the 
warm fires glow and the torches gleam in the ducal 
palace. When he had nearly reached the palace, 
the town began to spin and whirl around him at 


/ermuch, and he used to drink so deeply on festive 
rcasions as to affect the steadiness both of his 
lind and body. 

Christopher enjoyed the gala days. He mingled 
1 the gay processions that followed the ducal pair 
> the tournament ; he gazed with loyal pride on 
le horses with their trappings of crimson and 
old ; he followed the falconers to the hunting 
arks, and listened to the sprightly music that led 
te dance at night in the torch-lit palace. Among 
te voices that cheered the glittering bride as she 
ppeared on public occasions, no voice roared more 
JStily than Christopher Sly's. 

The ducal wedding took place in the deep of 
'inter, and one night soon after the joyful event, 
nd while Bruges was yet given up to festivities, 
aere fell a great snow-storm, blocking the streets 
nd silencing the town. 

Christopher's money was gone, and the falling 

such a rate that presently he sank in the chilly- 
snow and knew no more. 

Philip the Good loved to roam about Bruges in 
disguise, and this night he started with a few of his 
confidential courtiers, also disguised, for a fun- 
seeking expedition about the city. 

The party had not been out long when' they 
came upon poor Sly. 

" He will perish before morning," said the kind- 
hearted Duke. 

"What is to be done with him?" asked a 

" We will take him to the palace and have some 
sport with him. I will cause him to be washed and 
dressed and perfumed, and to be laid in a chamber 
of state. He will awake sober in the morning, 
when we will persuade him that lie is the Duke, and 
that we are his attendants. To-morrow the whole- 
Court of Burgundy shall serve a poor tinker ! " 




The attendants carried the unconscious tinker to 
the palace, where they washed him, and, putting 
upon him an elegant night-dress, laid him on a silk- 
curtained bed in a very gorgeous chamber. 

The poor tinker, on waking in the morning, 
looked about the room in wonder. He concluded 
that he must be dreaming, or that he had become 
touched in mind, or that he had died the night 
before and had been so happy as to get to heaven. 

At last, the Duke entered the apartment in the 
habit of the ducal chamberlain. 

" What will your Worship have this morning?" 
asked the' Duke. 

The tinker stared. 

" Has your Worship no commands ? " 

" I am Christopher Sly — Sly, the tinker. Call 
me not 'your Worship.'" 

" You have not fully recovered yet, I see. But 
you will be yourself again soon. What suit will 
your Worship wear to-day ? Which doublet, and 
what stockings and shoes ? " 

" I have no ' more doublets than backs, no more 
stockins than legs, and no more shoes than feet, 
and more feet than shoes sometimes.' I tell you I 
am Christopher Sly, and I am a tinker," was the 
puzzled reply. 

But the ducal chamberlain only bowed the more. 

Sly continued to look about him in amazement. 
At last he said, with much hesitation : 

" You may bring me my best suit. The day is 
pleasant — I will dress becomingly." 

" Now you are yourself again. I must hasten to 
inform the Court of your recovery. I must fly to 
her Grace the Duchess, and say : ' The Duke, the 
Duke is himself again ! ' " 

" The Duke ! I tell you I am Christopher Sly, 
— old Sly's son, of Burton Heath, — by birth a 
peddler and by trade a tinker. Duke Sly ! No. 
Duke Christopher ! or, better, Duke Christophero ! 
Marry, friend ! would n't that sound well ? It may 
be I am a duke, for all. Go ask Cicily Hacket, the 
buxom inn-keeper of Wincot, if she don't know 
Christopher Sly — Duke Christophero ; and if she 

say I do not owe her fourteen pence for small a 
then call me the biggest liar and knave in Christe 
dom ! " 

The servants presently brought the poor tinkei 
silver basin, " full of rose-water and bestrewed wi 
flowers." Then they brought him a suit of crimsc 
trimmed with lace and starred. The bewilder 
fellow stared awhile in silence ; then he slowly r. 
on the gorgeous apparel. 

The tinker next was conducted to a magnifict 
banqueting-hall, where was spread a rich fea 
The tables smoked with the venison and spark] 
with the wine. He was led to a high seat benea 
a canopy of silk and gold, the Duchess followin 
and seating herself by his side. Knights and lad, 
filled the tables, and the tinker began to feast ai 
to sip wine like a duke indeed. 

" I wish " said he, suddenly. 

" What is your wish ? " asked the Duchess. 

" I wish that old Stephen Sly was here, and Jol 
Napes and Peter Turf, and my wife Joan, ai 
Cicily Hacket, — would n't it be jolly ? " 

That night the reign of Duke Christopher car 
to a sudden end. But the Duke Philip kind 
remembered him, and 

" Thou shalt never," he said, 
" Range the countries around, 

Crying, 'Old brass to mend?' 

For I '11 be thy good friend, 

And Joan, thy sweet wife, 

Shall the Duchess attend." 

Those rude times, when acts of mercy and kin 
ness on the part of a ruler were so rare and so deal 
prized by the poor people, have changed now 
faded and gone. The golden Christmases ha 
brightened along the centuries, answering mc 
and more that prayer of all good people: " Tl 
kingdom come." The Bethlehem story has mo 
and more a sweeter meaning, and He whose km 
and gentle life mellowed even the hearts of kin 
and barons at the green Christmas-tides, more ai 
more fills the earth with His law of love, whi 
makes all men merciful, just and kind. 

"thy kingdom come." 




By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 

NOW, if there's anything I hate, — 
And there is some, perhaps, — 

It 's the way you have with you, 
You city chaps ! 

But, then, I did n't ask you out 

(You pull the dory round !) 
For a chance to blow you up ; 

(She '11 run aground !) 

Because I think that would n't be — 

It 's an idea I have — 
Just the way a gentleman 

Would like behave. 

Fact is, I 'd like to show you how, 
Before we 're squared off quits, 

All the gentlemen aint grown 
In Boston streets. 

But here ! You called me that, just now, 

I 've heard you say before 
This summer (Look out there! 

You hug the shore !) 

It 's really more than I can stand — 
A pretty word ! " Dock-rat ! " 

Just because a fellow don't 
Wear such a hat. 

And does n't wear a fancy shirt, 
With anchors to the sleeve ; 

And don't wear his stockings weeks . 
You 'd best believe 

That all this living round the wharves, 
And picking drift.-wood up, 

And such like vacation chores 

(Just see that pup 

Those there ladies took to bathe, 
With patent corks tied on !) 

I tell you this sort o' life 
Aint such a one 

As needs be sarsed at specially 

To be uncomf'table, 
Though I like it, on the whole, 


Perhaps the boarding- folks round here 

May have a sprucer look ; 
May be, now, you Boston chaps 

Can read a book 

That 's bigger by an inch or so 

Than I can easy steer ; 
You may clean up more than me — 

But now look here ! 

In all my life I never did — 

And I 'm just square gone ten — 

Put the name of " Paddy" on 
To Irishmen. 

Nor called a boy a " nigger," just 

Because his face was black ; 
Nor I don't hail sailors round : 
" Oh, here you, Jack ! " 

If so a chap is not exact 

So nice or smart as I, 
I don't make an imperence 

To know him by. 

Now, don't you see, this dory here 
Don't need to hold two men ? 

Just duck you under ! Who 'd be 
The "dock-rat" then? 

But, sir ! I asked you out to row ; 

Now tell me, if you can, 
Which of us two is most like 

A gentleman ? 



[Fac -Simile of Original MS.] 

[i p)\Mt*&vwn Ot ^uluiica 

Cl/nd /Wla/m/vn.a Ui /icA ke/»-ciaX|^ aud J ,1/n /WvW CaA^ 

V^ltC/n- 0A4.I" c^ru tk /C<xun\ ytheAc <Vu>ik. au,c/L a ctaJttth 

J y5Jvta/vva Puyyn t\\i fod £o ^co ^i-^cd AintJ the AruxtWv. 

IAaj&oaj Co "tVvc yun/n jcXo-u>" J /tew /vk& a MjaJAt 

WW, ^AtdT fajWAj ^cm cleM^vCj ^ JkkLdA CtUu*Jt 

U/ltii a AxkiLc ctd tkhJjV4Ji f fio (aaxJaj c^wJ qvdcJi 
J k/wxur \ai\ c* /hacvvu/nl~ tf/vnuM" ta jt. JVClAl. 





[F any of us should happen to have an old friend 
,om we had never seen, we would be delighted to 
ve his photograph, that we might know exactly 
w he looked. 

On the opposite page is the likeness of an old 
imd — certainly an old friend to most of us. It 

a facsimile, or exact imitation, of the original 
inuscript of that familiar poem which is now as 
ich a part of Christmas as the Christmas-tree or 
E roast turkey and mince-pies. No matter who 
ites poetry for the holidays, nor how new or popu- 

the author of such poems may be, nearly every- 
dy reads or repeats " 'T was the night before 
iristmas " when the holidays come round ; and it 
printed and published in all sorts of forms and 
'les, so that the new poems must stand aside 
ien it is the season for this dear old friend. 
Just think of it ! Jolly old St. Nicholas, with 
; sleigh and his reindeer and his bags full of all 
rts of good things, made his first appearance to 
my of us in this poem. Until we had heard or 
id this, we did n't know much about him, except 
it on Christmas Eve he shuffled down the chim- 
y somehow, and filled our'stockings. 
Now here is a part of the poem, — as much as 
r page will hold, — exactly as the author, Mr. 
ement C. Moore, wrote it. Here we see just 
w he dotted his i's and crossed his t's, and how 

wrote some of his lines a little crookedly. 

If we knew nothing about Mr. Moore but what 
we read in the biographical notices that have 
been written of him, we would never suppose that 
he troubled his brain about St. Nicholas and his 
merry doings, or thought of such things as reindeer 
and sleighs and wild gallops over house-tops. For 
he was a very able and learned man. He was the 
son of Bishop Benjamin Moore, and was born in 
New York, July 15, 1779. He was graduated at 
Columbia College (of which his father was at one 
time president). He was a fine Hebrew scholar, 
and published a Hebrew and English Lexicon and 
a Hebrew grammar. He was afterward Professor 
of Hebrew and Greek literature in the Protestant 
Episcopal Seminary in New York. He was a man 
of property, and had something of the St. Nicholas 
disposition in him, for he gave to this seminary the 
plot of ground on which its buildings now stand. 
Mr. Moore wrote many poems, which were col- 
lected and published in a book in 1844, and he did 
other good literary work ; but he never wrote any- 
thing that will keep his memory green so long as 
that delightful poem on the opposite page. 

The original manuscript of these famous verses 
is in the possession of the Hon. R. S. Chilton, 
United States Consul to Clifton, Canada, whose 
father was a personal friend of Mr. Moore, and who 
very kindly allowed us to make this facsimile copy 
of a page of the manuscript for St. Nicholas. 


Vol. II.— 11. 





By Noah Brooks. 

More than six hundred years ago, there began 
and ended a movement among the children of 
France and Germany, of which the world seems 
now to remember very little. It was a crusade to 
recover the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. It is 
hard to understand in these days how an army of 
men could be raised for such a purpose. It is more 
difficult to explain why thousands of children, with- 
out arms, provisions or equipments for so long a 
journey, should leave their native land and try to 
reach far-off Palestine to rescue the tomb of Our 
Saviour from the hands of unbelievers. But this 
was attempted by the Children of the Crusade, in 
in the year of Our Lord 1212. 

The Saracens, under the Caliph Omar, took pos- 
session of the Holy Land, A. D. 637. Although 
the places held most sacred in the eyes of the 
Christians of that time thus passed into the pos- 
session of people of a hostile faith, devout pil- 
grims were still permitted to visit the spots made 
memorable by tradition. To worship at spots be- 
lieved to be hallowed by Our Lord's birth, suffer- 

ings and death, men journeyed across continen 
suffered untold hardships, forsook home a 
friends, often lost their lives, and thus earned, 
they thought, the especial favor of God and 
abundant entrance into heaven. 

But, as the centuries moved on, the Sarac 
rulers were less favorably disposed toward t 
Christian pilgrims, who now were worried in vario 
ways, were shamefully treated, and forbidden 
keep the sacred places in repair. This ill ne 
spread throughout Europe. In all the Rom 
Catholic courts there was much indignation. T 
Pope, then the great potentate of Christendo 
was deeply stirred by the tidings brought him 
returning pilgrims. Peter the Hermit, a zealc 
man, who had seen with his own eyes the ind 
nities practiced by the Saracens, began to prea 
a crusade. He traversed many Christian kir 
doms, calling on rulers and people to rescue t 
Holy Sepulcher from the hands of unbelieve 
Urban II., then Pope of Rome, sanctioned t 
movement. The multitude took up the cau 



ying " God wills it ! God wills it ! " And thus 
e first crusade began. 

Those who entered the enterprise wore a cross 
cloth on the breast or shoulder. Bearing thus 
e sacred emblem, they became crusaders — cross- 

Several hundred thousand people — nobles, 
lights and soldiers — finally marched upon the 
oly Land in 1096. These were divided into four 
mies. They met with divers fortunes, and out 
the vast body of crusaders, only 21,500 soldiers 
< last reached Jerusalem. The Holy City fell into 
eir hands, and Godfrey of Bouillon was chosen 
ead of the Latin kingdom of Palestine. This 
jwer melted away in the lapse of time, and in 
45 another crusade became necessary to restore 
e Holy Sepulcher to Christian keeping. This 
is begun in 1 146. It was undertaken by France 
id Germany. It was unsuccessful, and a third 
usade was soon after resolved upon. In this 
•eat movement all Christendom was engaged, 
f those whose names are most prominent in the 
story of the time, Richard I., King of England, 
irnamed "The Lion-Hearted," has been longest 
membered as a chivalric sovereign and a puissant 

A fourth crusade was thought necessary in 1200, 
.e victorious Results of the third crusade having 
;ded away by that time. In this the French, 
isisted by the Venetians, were chiefly concerned, 
he ultimate effects of a long campaign were not 
itisfactory. The Holy Land was overrun once 
iore by the Mohammedans, and the new Turkish 
ower became firmly established on the border of 
urope in Asia Minor. 

1 At the beginning of the thirteenth century, 
urope was jarred by numerous wars ; some of 
iem were domestic, and others had been under- 
iken by royal or noble adventurers, greedy for 
jnquest. Fire and the sword had passed from 
ingdom to kingdom ; the people were impover- 
hed and sick of violence and "war. Civilization 
Las at a low ebb, and men everywhere were weary 
II their long struggles for peace. Into this con- 
dition of society came wayworn pilgrims from the 
4oly Land, bringing tidings of the wretched plight 
Lf the shrines which Christian hands had reared, 
i hd telling harrowing tales of the indignities heaped 
jri holy men who went to worship or pay their 
Lows at the birthplace and sepulcher of Our Lord. 
P To these appeals for succor there was no re- 
\ ponse. The country was poor and the people 
j red of wars. We can suppose that the preaching 
I f the excited pilgrims fell on the ears of men who 
ullenly asked themselves, " Will it pay ? " There 
ould be but one answer. Europe was filled with 
utlaws ; the people were sore distressed ; robber 

barons dwelt in strongholds, whence they issued to 
ravage vast tracts of country ; and only in the 
crowded, want-stricken cities was there any security 
for life and property. A crusade would not pay. 
The popular religion of the times was not much 
better than heathenism ; and the threats and en- 
treaties of priests were alike unheeded. 

In the gloomy old town of Cloyes, situated in 
the part of France now known as the Department 
of Eure-et-Loire, in 1212, lived a young lad named 
Stephen. The scant history of the times tells us 
only that he was a shepherd boy, that he was about 
sixteen years old, and that he tended a flock on the 
hills of the Loire, which flows through the town. 
His family name is not recorded ; he is known in 
history only as Stephen of Cloyes. 

Stephen had heard the passionate appeals of the 
priests, and had seen the tears of returning pil- 
grims as they recounted the perils of the way to 
the Holy Land and pictured the sufferings which 
Our Lord had endured through his disciples at 
Jerusalem. His heart had been stirred within him 
as he saw that there was not one to help the dis- 
tressed Church and her faithful cross-bearers. He 
had talked of these things in his rude companion- 
ship ; he had mused over them in his solitude 
among the hills of the Loire. As he mused, the 
fire burned. 

There to him appeared, one day, a strange man, 
who commended his zeal and pious tears. To the 
wonder-stricken, rapt youth he announced himself 
as Jesus Christ. He gave him a commission to 
preach a crusade to the children, promising that 
he should lead to Palestine an army that should 
occupy the land and restore the Holy Sepulcher. 
Into his hand he delivered a letter to the King of 
France, commanding the monarch to aid the 
Heaven-appointed apostle of the new crusade. 
Filled with rapture, Stephen flew to his parents, 
told his marvelous story, and exhibited his celestial 
letter to the king. The simple people listened with 
amazement and perplexity. They asked for the 
heavenly visitant ; but he had disappeared as mys- 
teriously as he came. We can only guess who and 
what he was. Probably, he was a priest of the 
neighborhood, who, hearing of Stephen's kindling 
enthusiasm, had disguised himself in pilgrim garb, 
and had thus visited and misled the simple boy. 

Stephen soon proved how apt a pupil he was. 
Fired with strange ardor and gifted with great 
natural powers of oratory, the lad kindled in- 
numerable hearts with burning zeal. Leaving 
Cloyes, he went to the city of St. Denys, then 
famous as the burial-place of the martyr Dionysius. 
Placing himself before the shrine of this early vic- 
tim to the rags of the heathen, he addressed the 
multitudes who came thither to worship. In glow- 




ing language, he pictured the desolation which the 
Moslems had wrought in the sacred city, and con- 
trasted with it the comfort and ease with which 
his hearers were surrounded. Here were gilded 
shrines, costly vestments, and clouds of incense. 
Yet the person of Christ was once more wounded 
in the bodies of those who would bow at His 
manger ; and no pious hand restored the ruin ■ 
which wicked men had wrought upon His tomb. 
Men had failed, he said, to redeem Jerusalem. 
Proud barons and powerful kings had been de- 
feated in their attempts to regain for Christendom 
the holy places. Now Christ had promised the 
children that they should recover the Holy Land 
and restore the Holy Sepulcher. The armies of 
the Lord, led by the power of kings and princes, 
had been overthrown by the Mohammedan. At 
last, out of the weakness of children, God had 
ordained strength. 

The people heard with awe, not unmixed with 
doubt. The religion of the time was overlaid with 
much ridiculous superstition. Legends of heathen 
deities were intermingled with monkish tales and 
lies. Divine appearances and angelic visitations 
were believed to be common ; and not a few were 
ready to accept Stephen as a divinely-appointed 
prophet. He is said to have healed the sick by his 
touch ; and the fame of his youth, piety, and high 
mission spread far and wide. Nevertheless, there 
was no movement of the people toward his banner. 
Men were disturbed by the civil wars that then rent 
France. There were many rulers, and the fertile 
provinces of that beautiful land were trampled by 
hostile forces. But the children were caught up by 
this strange enthusiasm. Like a contagion, the 
crusading spirit spread from Brittany to the Rhine. 
Stephen traversed the country, speeding from city 
to city, and everywhere calling on the children to 
hear the voice of God commanding them to save 
the Holy City from the defilement of the Mos- 

The young apostle must have been a youth of 
rare power. His appearance was in all places 
hailed with wild enthusiasm. He fascinated the 
children and youth. Inspired by his words, these 
young people seemed to be transfused with an un- 
accountable zeal. They passed into a state of 
spiritual exaltation not now easily to be understood. 
Boys and girls, of ten or twelve years of age, left 
their games and toys, or their tasks and homes, 
and joined the three-pointed, blood-red banner of 
the young crusader. Here and there, minor 
prophets sprang up, preaching the sacred mission 
of Stephen and avowing him as their leader. Like 
a flame the movement spread, sweeping children 
of tender years, and even maturer youths, into the 
ranks of the augmenting army. Children escaped 

from the confinement in which parents thought 
necessary to put them ; they were deaf to tin 
voice of authority and the call of affection. The\ 
flew, they ran, they poured, they tumultuousl; 
streamed to the banner of the Children's Crusade 
reechoing once more the cry which had followei 
the fiery cross of Peter the Hermit, " God wills it 
God wills it ! " 

The King of France was forced to turn his atten 
tion from his ambitious and selfish plans, and ti 
regard attentively this phenomenon. Not darinj 
to suppress a crusade, he asked the opinion of th 
University of Paris. The learned doctors of tha. 
conclave very sensibly, we must think, advised tha 
the matter be stopped. This was not so easy 
The infatuation had grown too strong in volume 
The government was powerless against these elu 
sive streams of singing, praying children. Like 
rolling snowball, the vast mass grew as it moved 
until countless numbers had poured into th 
columns of Stephen's army. People were aghas 
at their own inability to lay a straw in the way 
this wonderful army. It was currently reportei 
and believed to be the work of evil spirits in th 
guise of heavenly visitants. Some said that thi 
was the result of a scheme of the King of th 
Mountains, a mysterious potentate who was be 
lieved to live somewhere in Syria. This persoi 
was supposed to be chief of the Assassins, a band 
trained secret murderers, from whose name am 
occupation we derive our word "assassin." Th 
credulous French common-people believed that th 
chief of the Assassins had instigated this movemen 
in order to procure recruits for his service. 

Yet, many grown people embraced the fait! 
preached by Stephen ; they fed his followers, en 
couraged their children in their resolution to jo: 
the crusade, and not a few followed the army 
There were also abandoned and wicked person 
who joined themselves to the host ; they saw a 
opportunity to practice their vile arts, or they cor 
cealed themselves in the throng while they plur 
dered the country through which the army passec 
Their evil influence pervaded the ranks ; man 
youths were ruined in body and soul ; demoraliz: 
tion and discontent spread ; and, before the thron 
was out of France, the seeds of destruction wei 
terribly sown. 

News of this strange uprising sped swiftl 
throughout Europe. Pilgrims returning to Ge: 
many from the sacred shrines of France, told th 
story of the boy prophet as they trudged wearil 
up the fertile lands of the Rhine. Near the ol 
city of Cologne, where lie the fabled bones of th 
three wise men of the East, lived a boy name, 
Nicholas. He was then ten years old. His famil 
like that of Stephen, was humble ; and we on 



. now him now as Nicholas of Cologne. He heard 
i 1 " the great success of Stephen, and, incited by 
P is father, who is said to have been a bad man, he 
Pagan to preach in Germany the Children's 
[ rusade. He also pretended to have a divine 
j'ummission ; and this, he related, came to him in 
1 blazing picture in the sky, where he saw a fiery 
?-oss and a command to go and rescue the Holy 
F His success was immediate and very great. 

ouths of all stations and ranks came at his call. 
Jons of nobles and high-born lads from the castles 
: f knightly renown hastened to join his banner. 
Expostulation was in vain ; and, as in France, the 
Grange madness spread until Cologne was over- 
''owing with an army, and tens of thousands were 
'amped in the country outside the walls. 

Early in the summer of 1212, Nicholas marshaled 
' is army. It was twenty thousand strong ; and on 
"s skirts hung the dissolute and bad, who, as in 
"ranee, were eager to embrace this opportunity to 
'hinder, mislead, and corrupt. Heedless of these 
vil influences, the children, — gentle and simple, 
1 oble and serf-born, — ennobled by a common in- 
'piration, formed themselves into three columns, 
nd began their march to Palestine. 
\ With banners fluttering in the soft summer air, 
"Dngs joyfully ringing as they moved, and crosses 
''orne aloft, they passed down the banks of the 
Lhine. These twenty thousand children could 
'i.nd no place large enough to lodge them ; they 
;:ad no stores of provisions, except where some of 
'he sons and daughters of nobles had been pro- 
ided with supplies and attendants by their parents. 
r or the most part, therefore, they camped in 
orests, by running streams, or sought lodging in 
' attle-sheds and rude cottages by the way. They 
legged their scanty repast from the inhabitants of 
he country, fed on roots and berries, and often 
Vent forth hungry in the morning and lay down to 
leep at night pursued by gnawing hunger. Many 
rasted away and fell among the, rocky paths be- 
bre they had left German soil. Others were re- 
ceived into houses on the route, and so roamed no 

I Passing into Switzerland, then a collection of 
ittle principalities without any central government, 
hey were inhospitably received. Even Southern 
Germany was a rude country and sparsely peopled 
3y half-savage men. But the country now called 
Switzerland was even less civilized. Moreover, the 
oeople who inhabited the valleys of the Alps (into 
vhich they now passed) were unfriendly toward the 
Germans. The land was full of savage beasts ; 
solves, bears, and other frightful creatures prowled 
ilong the margin of this moving human stream, 
matching off the stragglers, picking up the 

wounded, or dashing into the night encampment 
in pursuit of their prey. 

Still, the devoted band pressed on toward Italy. 
Their songs were exchanged for sighs, but up the 
Alps they climbed. With wounded and bleeding 
feet, they crept over the rocky ledges or plunged 
into the icy torrents. At night, drenched with 
chilly rain, they lay down on stony pillows or sank 
upon the ground. Some who sought rest on these 
inhospitable couches never woke again, but slept 
away their hapless lives amidst Alpine snows. 
Others stripped themselves of their tattered gar- 
ments to shelter a freezing brother, sister or com- 
panion, and so perished nakedly, the unnamed 
heroes of the Children's Crusade. 

Singly or in straggling bands, many turned their 
faces homeward. But even these were too far 
spent to reach Germany again. They perished 
miserably in their feebleness ; and the comfortable 
homes of Fatherland knew them no more. So 
great was the mortality among the children of the 
German nobility, that a century passed away before 
the effects of this great inroad upon the flower of 
the nation had ceased to be apparent. 

At length, reaching the last declivity of the Alps, 
the German children beheld the superb city of 
Genoa. Its marble palaces and cathedral spires 
gleamed in the warm sunlight ; around rolled the 
verdurous valleys and hill-sides ; and beyond 
sparkled the blue Mediterranean. Filled with joy, 
they forgot their hardships and raised a song of 
triumph. Neglected banners were once rhore un- 
furled ; crosses waved on high ; and, renewed by 
the brightness of the moment, this strange inunda- 
tion precipitated itself upon the plains of Italy. 

Of the twenty thousand fair-haired youths who 
had left Germany, only seven thousand were left to 
knock at the gates of Genoa. The rest — well, we 
know how they had perished by the way. We can 
guess how, as their young lives went out, their 
sufferings must have pained the very ear of a mer- 
ciful God. We can imagine the dreadful story of 
their woes as they sank beneath the afflictions of 
hunger, cold, and disease, along the paths which 
these seven thousand had threaded. The army of 
the crusaders has long since melted away. We 
know very little of the young enthusiasts, or even 
of the people who must have known them ; but, 
while time endures, the pathetic story of their 
journey across the Alps shall be told with wonder 
and with tears. 

Seven thousand German boys, the flower of the 
Rhine lands, rugged survivors of an army of chil- 
dren, demanded one day's rest in Genoa. On the 
morrow, they confidently said, God would open a 
path through the sea. They wanted neither arms 
nor transportation. They were on the way to 




preach Christ to the Moslem. God had promised 
to cleave the waters of the Mediterranean for them, 
so that they might go over dry-shod to convert the 
cruel Saracen to the Christian faith. They were 
granted their request by the wondering senators. 
And the strange procession of ragged, shoeless and 
sun-browned children passed into Genoa, singing 
their wild crusading hymns. 

The people were greatly moved, and knew not 
what to make of this strange spectacle. It was 

by the shore, longing and expecting a marvelou: 
deliverance. But it never came. The sun sanl 
toward the horizon. Their brief allowance of tim< 
had passed ; and, with weary steps and slow, thei 
passed out of the city and gathered in the fields, 

It was impossible to go back. It were better tc 
die in Italy than to reascend the Alps. Soms 
found homes in Genoa and thereabouts ; but th( 
main body passed along the sea toward Pisa, ther 
one of the great free cities of Italy — rival of Gene 


feared that so many pilgrims would bring a famine 
into the city. The effect of their example was 
dreaded by parents of impressible children. More- 
over, Genoa sided with the Pope, who was then at 
war with the Emperor of Germany, Otho the 
Superb. These children must not long stay in the 
city. On the morrow (Sunday, August 26, 1212). 
they rose in haste and rushed to the seaside. Alas ! 
the tide rose and fell, lapping the marble walls and 
quays as before. There was no path through the 
sea. All day they waited, but no divine miracle 
came to relieve them. They sat down in groups 


and Venice. Here they were doubtfully received 
and a few, giving up their hope in a miraculou 
passage of the sea, accepted an offer to take shi 
to the Holy Land. We cannot follow these. It i 
believed that they finally reached Ptolemais, th 
only port in Asia Minor then in the hands of th 
Christians. They went no further. The city wa 
beleagured by the Moslems ; and into the mode 
population of Ptolemais this detachment of th 
Children's Crusade melts away and is heard of n 

The remnant Of the army of Nicholas pursue 




ir way to Rome, the seat of the papal power 

|,ng their only source of light and counsel. The 

tie (Innocent) received them kindly, but without 

i-iouragement. He told them that they must give 

their crusade ; but, with curious hardness, he 

i that they were still bound to their vows, and 

en they had reached maturer years they must 

ommence the undertaking that he now declared 


rlere, then, the last of the followers of Nicholas 

nd rest. In Rome, where so many modern pil- 

ms have' thought they gained their nearest 

mpse of the glories of Heaven, the boys of Ger- 

.ny ended their crusade. They disappear in the 

■onging multitudes of the Eternal City, and find 

. more place on the pages of history. 

Another body of German children followed that 

1 by Nicholas. These were about ten thousand 

number ; but why they were not included in the 

;vious army we cannot tell. There is no ex- 

mation of their course ; no record of the names 

their leaders. We only know that they pursued 

ilightly different course from that of their prede- 

ssors ; that they met the same privations ; suffered 

;o from hunger, thirst and exposure ; and that 

ey finally reached Italy reduced in numbers, and 

lit they rested at last at Brundusium. From this 

irt, at the extreme edge of the Italian peninsula, 

\ey expected to cross to the Holy Land. They 

jnd means of transportation ; and, embarking on 

ard several ships that were offered them, they 

lied away into oblivion. All trace of them is lost. 

r e cannot tell whether they suffered shipwreck 

id so were swallowed up in the sea, or whether 

ey were sold into slavery in distant pagan lands. 

fheir tragical story has perished out of-the records 

the past. 

The French children, under the leadership of 
|:ephen of Cloyes, left Vendome during the latter 
flirt of June, 1212. Thirty thousand, mostly boys, 
t out with the same demonstrations of joy and 
ithusiasm with which the German children had 
igun their march to Palestine. There were 
jjzzas, songs of lofty cheer, anthems to God, and 
ppeful predictions of victory in the Holy Land, 
there were weeping mothers holding out in vain 
ieir beseeching hands to the departing children 
hom they should see no more. The procession, 
;ay with banners and shouting with joy, passed 
town the Loire and so journeyed toward Marseilles. 
I Their route was not beset by the same hardships 
lat had broken the ranks of the German children, 
^'here were no Alps for them to scale ; no mountain 
j )rrents to chill their young blood. But the sum- 
ler of 1 2 1 2 was one of severe drought in France, 
'he fields were parched, the streams were dry, and 
)od was hard to get. 

Nevertheless, the bulk of Stephen's army passed 
on undismayed. Stephen assumed the airs of a 
young king. He rode in a chariot adorned with 
gorgeous trappings, and surrounded himself with 
an armed body-guard. He was luxuriously clad, 
and his person was held so sacred that a touch from 
him was a priceless boon. His deluded followers 
paid him divine honors ; when he spoke, they 
thronged about his chariot in such numbers that 
many of the weaker boys were trampled to death. 
He seems to have passed from a deluded victim of 
priestcraft into a wily, selfish impostor. 

The terrible heat prostrated many. Their corpses 
strewed the way ; and it is said that the country 
through which they passed was afflicted by the 
scourge their mortality inflicted. Barefoot, emaci- 
ated, and greatly reduced in numbers, the army 
reached Marseilles. Stephen's authority was gone, 
the crowd having long since refused to own him as 
their chief. They reached the sea at last, a de- 
moralized and disorganized rabble. 

Here the sight of the Mediterranean revived 
them, and they waited for the Lord of Hosts to 
open a path for them, In vain ! Days and weeks 
passed and no relief came. The citizens of Mar- 
seilles grew weary of feeding them ; and their pros- 
pects of reaching the Holy Land daily darkened. 
Thousands sought homes in the city or in the 
country round. Groups straggled off homeward, 
and a remnant only remained to wait. 

Two merchants of Marseilles, when the number 
of the children was reduced to about five thousand, 
offered to carry them to the Holy Land. The offer 
was gladly accepted ; and in seven small vessels 
the joyful young crusaders finally set sail. Two of 
these craft were cast on the rocky shores of the Isle 
of Falcons, a small island in the Mediterranean. 
All on board perished miserably, their comrades 
looking on in horror while the cruel sea swallowed 
up their forms forever. 

The rest of the fleet sailed away. Their banners 
disappeared down the horizon, and for eighteen 
years they were lost to the world that had known 
them as the young crusaders. In due time, there 
came tidings — at first uncertain, then more posi- 
tive — of the hapless boys. The two merchants of 
Marseilles — Porcus and Ferreus — were disguised 
slave-dealers ; the young crusaders were carried to 
Bujeiah, an Algerine port, and there -sold into 
pagan slavery. A few were taken to Alexandria, 
where they were bought by dealers from Bagdad, 
Cairo, and other Moslem cities. The children who 
had been born on the Seine, the Loire, or in the 
lovely valleys of Southern France, wore their lives 
away in the hot fields of Syria, Mesopotamia and 
Egypt. Cruel Algerines drove to their daily tasks 
the tender young ones of mothers who sorrowed in 

1 68 



distant homes for the children whose fate was un- 
known, and on whose dear faces they should look 
no more. 

Centuries have gone since this strange crusade 
was preached. Kings and mighty men who then 
filled a great space in the world have gone their 
way. The little actors in this moving drama have 
long since become dust. Their burial-places, scat- 
tered from Central Europe to farther Asia, are un- 
known. In the crowded chapters of the history of 
humanity this doleful tragedy is but a little point. 

Even we who read it wonder vaguely at the ma 
velous religious enthusiasm that awakened th 
mass of children ; and we close the story with 

But God has doubtless wrought out some lesso 
from these pathetic events. So soon this dreai 
was over ; so soon this pitiful struggle was ended 
so rapidly into the dim past melted the story c 
the Children's Crusade — who shall tell why it w; 
ever begun so strangely, or why it ended in such 
cloud of woe ? 

By C. A. Lvnde. 

A curious place is Old Santa Claus' den. 
All stor'd full of treasure? ; where queer little men, 
No larger than drumsticks, yet active and bright, 
Are busily working from morning till night. 

These queer little fellows, these workmen 50 small, 
All answer with pleasure Old Santa Claus' call 
For " Fifty more bonbons, one hundred more toys ! 
More names on my list of good girls and good 
boys ! " 

' Here, merrily ho ! " he gleefully cries ; 

' My sled .is all ready — make haste, the time flies ! 

My reindeer are prancing and pawing the snow; 
Make haste there, make haste, we're impatient to go! 

Soon the bundles are packed wilh the greatest of can 
Then offspring the reindeer, on ! on! thro' the air, 
Till they stop at some home, where snug in their be 
Sleep Cora and Mabel, cr Willie and Fred. 

When the children awake at dawn's early light. 
And steal from their beds, how they '11 scream witrl 

On beholding their stockings, they hung on the wall. 
With treasures o'erflowing, and something for all. 





By J. T. Trowbridge. 

Chapter I. 


YOUNG fellow in a 
light buggy, with a 
big black dog sitting 
composedly beside 
him, enjoying the 
rjde, drove up, one 
summer afternoon, 
to the door of a 
log-house, in one 
of the early settle- 
ments of Northern 

A woman with 
lank features, in a 
soiled gown trailing 
its rags about her 
bare feet, came and- 
stood in the door- 
way and stared at 

" Does Mr. Wig- 
gett live here ? " he 

' ' Wal, I reckon," said the woman. 

I' Is he at home ? " 

l| Wal, I reckon." 

' Can I see him ? " 

' I dunno noth'n' to hender. Yer 

:he burnt lot and fetch your pap. 

mger. You 've druv a good piece, 

led, glancing at the buggy-wheels and the 

•se's white feet, stained with black prairie soil. 

i'l've driven over from North Mills," replied 
young fellow, regarding her pleasantly, with 

ght, honest features, from under the shade of 
hat brim. 

I'l 'lowed as much. Alight and come into the 

lse. Old man '11 be yer in a minute." 

ie declined the invitation to enter ; but, to rest 
limbs, leaped down from the buggy. There- 
in the dog rose from his seat on the wagon- 
i :tom, jumped down after him, and shook him- 

y' All creation ! " said the woman, " what a pup 

it ar is ! Yer, you young uns ! Put back into 

■ house, and hide under the bed, or he '11 eat ye 

like ye was so much cl'ar soap-grease ! " 

Sal ! run up 
Tell him a 
the woman 

At that moment the dog stretched his great 
mouth open, with a formidable yawn. Panic seized 
the " young uns," and they scampered; their bare 
legs and exceedingly scanty attire (only three shirts 
and a-half to four little barbarians) seeming to offer 
the dog unusual facilities, had he chosen to regard 
them as soap-grease and to regale himself on that 
sort of diet. But he was too well-bred and good- 
natured an animal to think of snapping up a little 
Wiggett or two for his luncheon ; and the fugitives, 
having first run under the bed and looked out, 
ventured back to the door, and peeped with scared 
faces from behind their mother's gown. 

To hide his laughter, the young fellow stood 
patting and stroking his horse's neck until Sal re- 
turned with her " pap." 

"Mr. Wiggett?" inquired the youth, seeing a 
tall, spare, rough old man approach. 

"That's my name, stranger. What can I dew 
for ye to-day ? " 

" I 've come to see what I can do for yoti, Mr. 
Wiggett. I believe you want your section corner 
looked up." 

" That I dew, stranger. But I 'lowed 't would 
take a land-surveyor for that." 

" I am a land-surveyor," said the young fellow, 
with a modest smile. 

" A land-surveyor ? Why, you 're noth'n' but a 
boy ! " And the tall old man, bending a little, and 
knitting his gray eyebrows, looked down upon his 
visitor with a sort of amused curiosity. 

"That's so," replied the "boy," with a laugh 
and a blush. " But I think I can find your corner, 
if the bearings are all right." 

" Whar 's your instruments ?" asked the old man, 
leaning over the buggy. "Them all? What's 
that gun to do with land-surveyin' ? " 

" Nothing ; I brought that along, thinking I 
might get a shot at a rabbit or a prairie hen. But 
we shall need an axe and a shovel." 

" I 'lowed your boss would come himself, in place 
of sendin' a boy ! " muttered the old man, taking 
up the gun, — a light double-barreled fowling-piece, 
— sighting across it with an experienced eye, and 
laying it down again. " Sal, bring the axe; it 's 
stickin' in the log thar by the wood-pile. Curi's 
thing, to lose my section corner, hey ?" 

" It's not a very uncommon thing," replied the 
young surveyor. 

"Fact is," said the old man, "I never found it. 




I bought of Seth Parkins's widder arter Seth died, 
and banged if I Ye ever been able to find the 
gov'ment stake." 

" May be somebody pulled it up, or broke it off, 
to kill a rattlesnake with," suggested the young 

" Like enough," said the old man. " Can't say 
't I blame him ; though he might 'a' got a stick in 
the timber by walkin' a few rods. He could n't 
'a' been so bad off as one o' you surveyor chaps 
was when the gov'ment survey went through. He 
was off on the Big Perairie, footin' it to his camp, 
when he comes to a rattler curled up in the grass, 
and shakin' his 'tarnal buzz-tail at him. He steps 
back, and casts about him for some sort of we'pon ; 
he had n't a thing in his fist but a roll of paper, 
and if ever a chap hankered arter a stick or a stun, 
they say he did. But it was all jest perairie grass ; 
nary rock nor a piece of timber within three mile. 
Snake seemed to 'predate his advantage, and flat- 
tened his head and whirred his rattle sassier 'n 
ever. Surveyor chap could n't stan' that. So 
what does he dew, like a blamed fool, but jest off 
with his boot and hurl it, 'lowin' he could kill a 
rattler that way. He missed shot. Then, to git 
his boot, he had to pull off t' other, and tackle the 
snake with that. Lost that tew. Then he was in 
a perdickerment ; snake got both boots ; curled up 
on tew 'em, ready to strike, and seemin' to say, ' If 
you've any more boots to spar', bring 'em on.' 
Surveyor chap had n't no more boots, to his sor- 
row; and, arter layin' siege to the critter till sun- 
down, hopin' he 'd depart in peace and leave him 
his property, he guv it up as a bad job, and footed 
it to the camp in his stockin's, fancyin' he was 
treadin' among rattlers all the way." 

The story was finished by the time the axe was 
brought ; the old man picked up a rusty shovel 
lying by the house, and, getting into the buggy 
with his tools, he pointed out to his young com- 
panion a rough road leading through the timber. 

This was a broad belt of woodland, skirting the 
eastern side of a wide, fertile river-bottom, and 
giving to the settlement the popular name of 
" Long Woods." 

On the other side of the timber lay the high 
prairie region, covered with coarse wild grass, and 
spotted with flowers, without tree or shrub visible 
until another line of timber, miles away, marked 
the vicinity of another stream. 

The young surveyor and the old man. in the 
jolting buggy, followed by the dog, left the log- 
house and the valley behind them ; traversed the 
woods, through flickering sun and shade ; and 
drove southward along the edge of the rolling 
prairie, until the old man said they had better stop 
and hitch. 

" I don't hitch my horse," said the young si 
veyor. "The dog looks out for him. Here 
fellow, watch ! " 

" The section corner, I ca'c'late," said the c 
man, shouldering his axe, " is off on the perai 
thar, some'er's. Come, and I '11 show ye t 

" Is that big oak with the broken limb one 
them ? " 

" Wal. now, how did ye come to guess that? 
one tree out of a hundred ye might 'a' picked." 

" It is a prominent tree," replied the youl 
"and, if I had been the surveyor, I think 
should have chosen it for one, to put my be; 
ings on." 

" Boy. you're right ! But it took me tew df 
to decide even that. The underbrush has grow 
up around it, and the old scar has nigh abc 
healed over." 

The old man led the way through the thickc 
and, reaching a small clear space at the foot of t 
grent oak, pointed out the scar, where the tru 
had been blazed by the axemen of the governnu 
survey. On a surface about six inches bro; 
hewed for the purpose, the distance and directi 
of the tree from the corner stake had, no dou 
been duly marked. But only a curiously shap 
wound was left. The growth of the wood v 
rapid in that rich region, and, although the <■ 
had been made but a few years before, a broad 
of smooth new bark had rolled up about it from t 
sides, and so nearly closed over it that only a n. 
row, perpendicular, dark slit remained. 

" What do you make of that?" said Mr. W 
gett, putting his fingers at the opening, and lot 
ing down at his companion. 

" I don't make much of it as it looks now," t 
young surveyor replied. 

" Did n't I tell you 't would take an old head 
find my corner? T'other tree is in a wus sha 
than this yer. Now I reckon you '11 be satisfied 
turn about and whip home, and tell your boss i 
a job for him." 

" Give me your axe," was the reply. 

" Boy, take kere what you 're about ! " 

"Oh, I will take care; don't be afraid." Ar 
grasping the axe, the young surveyor began to 
away the folds of new wood which had formed 
the scar. 

" I see what you 're up tew," said the old m; 
gaining confidence at every stroke. " Give me t 
axe; you aint tall enough to work handy." A 
with a few strokes, being a skillful chopper, 
cleared the old blaze, and exposed the blackei- 
tablet which nature had so nearly enclosed in 
casket of living wood. 

There, cut into the old hewed surface, were t 



-preserved marks of the government survey : 

N. 4S 15' W. 
iS R. 10 L. 

'What does that mean ? " asked the old man, as 
youth made a copy of these marks in his note- 

1 It means that this tree is eighteen rods and ten 
s from your corner stake, in a direction forty- 
it degrees and fifteen minutes west of north." 
I can understand your rods and links," said 
old man ; " for I know your surveyor's chain is 
<■ rods long, and has a hundred links. But 
1 ged if I know anything about your degrees and 
>' All that is just as simple," replied the young 
>>eyor. " A circle is supposed to be divided into 
;e hundred and sixty degrees. Each degree is 
ded into sixty minutes ; and so forth. Now, if 
; stand looking directly north, then turn a 
Irter of the way round, and look straight west, 
1 have turned a quarter of a circle, or ninety de- 
^es ; and the angle where you stand — where the 
th line and the west line meet — is called an 
He of ninety degrees. Half as far is forty-five 
'Tees. Seen from the corner stake, wherever it 
':his tree bears a little more than forty-five de- 
es west of north ; it is forty-eight degrees and a 
rter. Where 's the other tree ? " 
rhat was ten or eleven rods away, still in the 
-"e of the timber ; and it bore on its blazed trunk, 
rig the open prairie, the inscription — laid bare 
the old man's ready axe — 

N. S2 2 7' W. 

lb R. 2g L. 

'Eighty-two degrees twenty-seven minutes west 
lorth, and sixteen rods twenty-nine links, from 
ir corner," the young surveyor read aloud, as he 
,'ied the marks into his note-book. " The other 
£ is so surrounded by undergrowth, it would take 
1 and your axe an hour to cut a passage through 
that I could run a line ; and I am going to try 
ining a line from this tree alone. Be cutting a 
good stakes, while I go and bring up my horse 
'i set him to eating grass." 

Chapter II. 


![*HE horse was driven to a good shady place on 
edge of the woods, relieved of his bridle, and 

. in charge of the dog. In the meanwhile the 
man cut a few oak saplings and hewed them 

3 stakes. 

'Now, I want ye to give me a notion of how 

t're gwine to work," he said, as the youth 

brought his compass and set it up in its tripod at 
the foot of the tree. ''For, otherwise, how am I 
to be sure of my corner, when you say you 've 
found it ? " 

" O, I think we shall find something to convince 
you. However, look here, and I '11 explain." 

While waiting for the wavering needle to settle 
in its place, the youth made a hasty diagram in a 
page of his note-book. 

" S A 



" Here we are on the edge of the timber. A is 
your first tree. B is the one where we are. Now 
if the bearings are correct, and I run two lines ac- 
cordingly, the place where they meet will be the 
place for your corner stake ; say at C." 

"That looks cute; I like the shape of that!" 
said the old man, interested. 

" If the distance was short, — feet instead of rods, 
— all the instruments we should want," said the 
young surveyor, with his peculiarly bright smile, 
"would be a foot measure and two strings." 

"How so?" said the old man, who could not 
believe that science was so simple a thing as that. 

"Why, for instance, we will say the tree A is 
eighteen feet from the corner you want to find ; B, 
sixteen feet. Now take a string eighteen feet long, 
and fasten the end of it by a nail to the center of 
the blazed trunk, A ; fasten another sixteen feet 
long to B\ then stretch out the loose ends of both 
until they just meet ; and there is the place for 
your stake. " 

"I declar' !" exclaimed the old man. "That's 
the use of the tew trees. Banged if I dew see, 
' though, how you 're gwine to git along by runnin' 
a line from jest one." 

" If I run two lines, as I have shown you, where 
they cross will be the point. Now if I run one line, 
and measure it, I shall find the point where the 
other line ought to cross. We '11 see. Here on 
my compass is a circle and a scale of degrees, 
which shows me how to set it according to the bear- 




ings. Now look through these sights, and you are 
looking straight in the direction of your section 

" Curi's, aint it?" grinned the old man. " 'Cord- 
in' to that, my corner is out on the perairie, jest 
over beyant that ar knoll." 

"You're right. Now go forward to the top of 
it, while I sight you, and we '11 set a stake there. 
As I signal with my hands this way, or this, move 
your stake to the right or left, till I make this mo- 
tion ; then you are all right." 

The young surveyor had got his compass into 
position, by looking back through the sights at the 

" But it 's noth'n' but a bog this time o' year 
can't navigate a boat thar. And it '11 take 
middle o' next week to build a brush road acn 
Guess we 're up a stump now, hey? " 

" O, no ; stumps are not so plenty, where I 
dertake jobs ! Let 's have a stake down the 
pretty near the slew ; then we will measure 
line, and see how much farther we have to go." 

The old man helped bear the chain ; and a a 
ful measurement showed that the stake at the e< 
of the slough was still four rods and thirty li: 
from the corner they sought. 

'•Banged if it don't come jest over on t'ot 

"and sighting forward, directed the old man where to set his stakes.' 

tree. He now placed. himself between it and the 
tree, and, sighting forward, directed the old man, 
who went on over the knoll, where to set his stakes. 

On the other side of the knoll, it was found that 
the line crossed a slough. — or "'slew," as the old 
man termed it, — which lay in a long, winding hol- 
low of the hills. This morass was partly filled with 
stagnant water ; and the old man gave it a bad 

" It 's the wust slew in the hull country. I 've 
lost tew cows in it. I would n't go through it for 
the price of my farm. Could n't git through ; a 
man would sink intew it up tew his neck." 

" Then we may have to get a boat to find your 
section corner," laughed the young surveyor. 

side of the slew ! " the old man exclaimed, co 
puting the distance with his eye. "But we ca 
measure a rod furder ; and yer we be stuck." 

" Not yet, old friend ! " cried the young survey 
"Since we can't cross, we'll measure the rest 
our distance along on this shore." 

The old man looked down upon. him with ind 
nation and amazement 

" Think I 'm a do 
" The idee of turnin' from our course, and me 
urin' along by the slew ! What 's the good 

Finding that the old man would not aid or al 
what seemed to him such complete folly, the you 
survevor made another little diagram in his no 



:, and explained : " Here is the end of our line 
•ting from the direction B, — theoretically a 
ght, horizontal line, though it curves over the 
1. You noticed how, coming down the slope 
.d of you, I held my end of the chain up from 
1, to make it horizontal, and then with 


plumb-line found the corresponding point in 

ground, to start fresh from. That was to get 

measurement of a horizontal line ; for if you 

[.sure all the ups and downs of hills and hollows, 

! 'U find your surveying will come out in queer 


he old man scratched his bushy gray head, and 

he had n't thought of that. 

'Well," the young surveyor continued, " we are 

ning our line off toward C, when we come to 

slew. Our last stake is at D — say this little 

ig with a flag on it. Now, what is to be done ? 

we must measure four rods and thirty links 

her. I measure that distance from D to E. 

ig this shore, running my new line at an angle 

ixty degrees from the true course. Then, with 

compass at E, I sight another line at an angle 

ixty degrees from my last. I am making what 

ailed an equilateral triangle ; that is, a triangle 

i equal sides and equal angles. Each angle must 

isure sixty degrees. With two angles and one 

:, we can always get the other two sides ; and 

i; other angle will be where those two sides meet. 

-sy will meet at C. Now, since the sides are of 

ial length, the distance from D to C is the same 

"rom D to E — that is, four rods and thirty links, 

: 't the distance we wish to go ; C, then, is the 

:e for your corner stake." 

'!' It looks very well on paper," said the old man, 
ut" — casting his eye across the bog — " how in 
name of seven kingdoms are ye ever gwine to 
yer stake thar ? " 

' ' That is easy. Go round to the other side of 
slew, get yourself in range with our line from 
■ tree, by sighting across the stakes, and walk 
vn toward the slew — that is, on this dotted line, 
ving got my angle of sixty degrees at E, I will 

sight across and stop you when I see you at C. 
There stick your last stake." 

" Banged if that aint cute ! Young man, what 
mout be your name ? " 

" I was only boy a few minutes ago," said the 

voung surveyor, slyly. "Now, if you are ready, 

we '11 set to work and carry out this plan." 

The line from D to E was measured off. 

Then the youth set his compass to obtain 

the proper angle at E ; while the old man, 

with his axe and a fresh stake, tramped 

f around to the eastern side of the slough. 

^ J Having got the range of the stakes, he 

was moving slowly back toward them, 

holding his stake before him, when the 

youth signaled him to stop just in the 

edge of the quagmire. 

The new stake stuck, the young sur- 
veyor, taking up his tripod and compass, 
went round to him. 
"That stake," said he, "is not far from your 
corner. Are there any signs ? " 

"I've been thinkin'," said the old man, "the 
'arth yer looks like it had been disturbed some 
time ; though it 's all overgrowed so with these 
clumps of slew-grass, ye can't tell what 's a nat'ral 
hummock and what aint. Don't that look like a 
kind of a trench ? " 

" Yes ; and here 's another at right angles with 
it. Surveyors cut such places on the prairies, pile 
up the sods inside the angle, and drive their corner 
stakes through them. But there must have been 
water here when this job was done, which accounts 
for its not being done better. We '11 improve it. 
Go for the shovel. I '11 get the bearings of those 
trees in the meanwhile, and see how far wrong they 
make us out to be." 

When the old man returned with the shovel, he 
found his boy surveyor standing by the compass, 
with folded arms, looking over at the woodland 
with a smile of satisfaction. 

Sighting the trees, the tall, straight stems of 
which were both visible over the knoll, he had found 
that their bearings corresponded closely with those 
copied in his note-book. This proved his work to 
his own mind ; but the old man would not yet con- 
fess himself convinced. 

" We may be somewhar nigh the spot, but I 
want to be sure of the exact spot," he insisted. 

" That you can't be sure of; not even if the best 
surveyor in the world should come and get it from 
these bearings," replied the youth. " Probably the 
bearings themselves are not exact. The Govern- 
ment surveyors do their work in a hurry. The 
common compass they use does n't make as fine 
angles as the theodolite or transit instrument does; 
and then the chain varies a trifle in length with 




every variation of temperature ; the metal contracts 
and expands, you know. Surveying, where the land 
is worth a dollar and a-quarter a foot, instead of a 
dollar and a-quarter an acre, is done more carefully. 
Yet I am positive, from the indications here, that 
we are within a few inches of your corner." 

"A few inches, or a few feet, or a few rods! " 
muttered the old man crossly. " Seems like thar"s 
a good deal of guess-work, arter all." 

" I am sorry you think so," replied the young 
surveyor, quietly removing his tripod. "If. how- 
ever, you are dissatisfied with my work, you can 
employ another surveyor ; if he tells you I am far 
out of the way, why, then, you needn't pay me." 

The old man made no reply, but. seizing the 
shovel, began to level the hummock a little, in 
order to prepare it for a pile of fresh sods. He was 
slashing away at it, with the air of a petulant man 
working off his discontent, when he struck some- 
thing hard. 

"What's that ar?"he growled. "Can't be a 
stone. Aint a rock as big as a hazel-nut this side 
the timber." 

Digging round the obstacle, he soon exposed the 
splintered end of an upright piece of wood. He 
laid hold of it and tried to pull it up. The youth, 
with lively interest, took the shovel, and dug and 
pried. Suddenly up came the stick, and the old 
man went over backwards with it into the bog. 

He scrambled to his feet, dripping with muddy 
water, and brandished his trophy, exclaiming : 

" Dog my cats ! if 't aint the eend of the ol' cor- 
ner stake, left jest whar 't was broke off, when the 
rest was wanted to pry a wheel out o' the slew, or 
to kill a rattler with ! " 

He appeared jubilant over the discovery, while 
the young surveyor regarded it simply as a piece 
of good luck. 

Chapter III. 


The new stake having been stuck in the hole 
left by the point of the old one, and plenty of fresh 
turf piled up about it, the old man wiped his fingers 
on the dry prairie grass, thrust a hand into his 
pocket, and brought forth an ancient leather wallet. 

"My friend," said he, "shall I settle with you 
or with your boss? " 

" You may as well settle with me." 

" Nuff said. What 's yer tax ? " 

" Two dollars and a-half. " 

" Tew dollars and a — dog-gone-ation ! You Ve 
been only tew hours and a-half about the job. I 
can hire a man all day for half-a-dollar." 

" It is an afternoon's work for me," argued the 
young surveyor. " I 've had a long way to drive. 

Then, you must understand, we surveyors " (( 
was said with an air of importance) " don't get t 
merely for the time we are employed, but also 
our knowledge of the business, which it has tal 
us time to learn. If I had been obliged to hire 
horse I drive, you see, I should n't have much 
out of two dollars and a-half." 

" Friend, you 're right. Tew 'n' a-half is reasi 
able. And if I have another job of land-surveyi 
you are the man for my money." 

" A man, am I, now? " And with a laugh 
young surveyor pocketed his fee. . 

" Good as a man, I allow, any time o' d; 
You 've worked at this yer thing right smart, a 
I '11 give ye the credit on 't. How long have 
been larnin' the trade ? " 

"O, two years, more or less, studying at c 
spells. But I never made a business of it unt 
came to this new country." 

" What State be ye from ? " 

"New York." 

" York State ! That 's whar I hail from." 

" One would n't think so ; you have a good m 
Southern and Western words in your talk." 

" I come by 'em honest," said the old man. 
run away from home when I was a boy, likf 
derned fool ; I 've lived a'most everywhar ; 2 
1 've married four wives, and raised four craps 
children. My fust wife I picked up in ol' Kaintu 
My next was an Arkansaw woman. My third \ 
a Michigander. My present was born and rai: 
in the South, but I married her in Southern Illinc 
She 's nigh on to forty year younger 'n I be, i 
smart as a steel trap, tell you ! So you see we 
kind of a mixed-up family. My fust and secc 
broods of children 's married off, or buried, — sc 
tered to the four winds o' heaven ! Tew bo; 
the third brood, and that ar Sal, is with me 
Some of the present brood you 've seen. Tha 
been twenty-one in all." 

" Of the fourth brood ? " 

" No, of the lot. Whose hoss mout that be ? 

" Mine ; I brought him from the East with m 

" What do you have to pay for a beast like th 
now, in York State ? " 

" I did n't pay anything for him." 

" Somebody gi'n him tew ye ? " 

" Not exactly." 

" Ye gambled for him ? " 


" Raised him from a colt, then ? " 

" No." 

" Stole him?" 

" Not much." 

" Picked him up astray ? " 

The young surveyor, laughing, shook his hea 

" Then how in the name o' seven kingdoms 










ome by him, if ye did n't find him, nor steal 
. nor raise him from a colt, nor buy him, nor 
: : him gi'n tew ye ? " 

" I borrowed him of a neighbor, and drove him 
show, where the old elephant broke loose and 
the handling of him for about a second and 
If. The owners of the elephant paid the dam- 
; and I kept the horse. Nobody thought he 
' Id get well ; but he is now scarcely lame at all. 
1 show you the scars where he was hurt." 
he two had approached the wagon during this 
'; and now the old man examined the horse 

a good deal of curiosity. 
IThat your dog tew ? " 
•[Yes, sir. Here, Lion ! " 

Cost ye suth'n, did n't it. to bring your animals 
.t with ye ? " 

Not a great deal. When my friends wrote for 
:o come, they said good horses were scarce and 
i-priced out here, and advised me to bring 
;. I couldn't leave my dog behind, — could I, 
Lion ? " 

Who mout your friends be ? " 
r Mr. and Mrs. Lanman, at North Mills; and 
Lanman's brother, — my boss, as you call him, 
r. Felton, the surveyor. They came out last 
' ; and last winter they wrote to me, offering me 
od chance if I should come. It was in winter ; 
'ove Snowfoot in a cutter, and crossed the De- 
River on the ice just before it broke up. 
re the sleighing left me ; so I sold my cutter, 
jht a saddle, and made the rest of the journey 
orseback. That was rather hard on the dog, 
I got the stage-drivers to give him a lift once 

' What did you say your name was ? " the old 

I don't think I said. But I will say now. My 
e is Ragdon — Henrv Ragdon. My friends call 
Jack. " 

And it aint yer name ? " 

O, yes, it is, and yet it is n't. I was brought 
it, my friends like it, and so I keep it." * 
Wal. Jack, — if you'll rank me with your 
Ids, and le' me call ye so," said the old man, 
a cordial grip of his great, flat hand. — '■ I 
se we part yer, and say good-bye. I '11 shoulder 
tools, and take a cow-path through the woods; 
'11 find a better road than the one we come by, 
ler north. Jest keep along the edge of the 
trie. I sha'n't forgit this job." 
Nor I°," said the young surveyor, with a curious 

was the first work of the kind he had under- 
n on his own account, and without assistance ; 

for which reason he felt not a little proud of it. 
But he did not tell the old man so. 

After parting company with him, he drove in 
the shade of the woods, along a track so little 
traveled that the marks of wheels looked like dark 
ruled lines in the half-trodden grass. 

The pleasant summer afternoon was drawing to 
a close. The peculiar wild scent of the prairie, 
which seems to increase as the cool evening comes 
on, filled all the air. The shadows of the forest 
were stretching in a vast, uneven belt over sum- 
mit and hollow ; while far away beyond, in seem- 
ingly limitless expanse, swept the golden-green 
undulations of the sunlit hills. 

Jack — for I trust we shall also be entitled to call 
him so — kept his eye out for game, as he drove 
leisurely along ; stopped once or twice for a rabbit 
on the edge of the woods ; and, finally, pulled up 
sharply, as a prairie hen shot whirring out, almost 
from under his wheels. 

He sprang to his feet and faced about, raising 
his gun ; but before he could take aim, the bird, 
at the end of a short, straight flight, dropped into 
the prairie grass a few rods away. 

Jack followed on foot, holding his piece ready to 
fire. Knowing the shy habits of the bird, he 
trampled the grass about the spot where she had 
alighted, hoping to scare her up. He also sent his 
dog coursing about ; but Lion, though an intel- 
ligent animal, had no scent for birds. 

Suddenly, from the very ground between the 
hunter's feet, with a startling rush and thunder of 
wings, the hen rose. Up went gun to shoulder. 
But instantly the dog gave chase, and kept so ex- 
actly in the line of flight, that Jack durst not fire. 

"You silly boy's dog!" he said; "don't you 
know better than that ? You '11 get a stray shot 
some day, if you run before my gun-barrels in that 
fashion. Now go to the horse, and stay." 

The dog, who had fancied that he was doing 
good service, dropped ears and tail at this rebuke, 
and retired from the field. 

Jack was continuing the hunt, when all at once 
a strange spell seemed to come over him. It found 
him on one foot, and he remained on one foot, 
poising the other behind him, for several seconds. 
Then, softly putting down the lifted leg, and lower- 
ing his gun, he stole swiftly back, in a crouching 
attitude, to his wagon by the woodside. 

Taking his horse by the bridle, he led him down 
into a little hollow. Then, piercing the under- 
growth, he hastened to a commanding position, 
where, himself hidden by the bushes, he could look 
off on the prairie. 

His heart beat fast, and his hand shook, as he 

' Fast Friends ; " also the previous volumes of this series — "Jack Hazard and His Fortu 
" Doing His Best," which give a full account of the young surveyor's early 1 

;," " A Chance for Himself," and 
and adventures. 




drew the bird-shot out of the two barrels of his 
fowling-piece, reloading one with buck-shot, the 
other with an ounce ball. 

All the while his eye kept glancing from his gun 
to the shadowy slope of a distant hill, where were 
two objects which looked like a deer and a fawn 

Chapter IV. 


They were a long way off — more than half-a- 
mile, he thought. Evidently they had not seen 
him. Though marvelously quick to catch scent or 
sound, deer have not a fine sense of sight for dis- 
tant objects. 

" They have left the covert early, to go out and 
feed," thought he. " If not frightened, they will 
browse around in the hollows there until dark." 

He was wondering how he should manage to 
creep near, and get a shot at the shy creatures, 
when the dog barked. 

" That wont do ! " he muttered ; and, hurrying 
to silence Lion, he saw a stranger loitering along 
the prairie road. 

■ Jack stepped out of the bushes into the hollow, 
and beckoned. 

" I 've sighted a couple of deer that I 'm trying 
to get a shot at ; if you go over the hill, you '11 
scare 'em." 

The stranger — a slender youth in soiled shirt- 
sleeves, carrying a coat on his arm — looked at him 
saucily, with his head on one side and a quid turn- 
ing in the cheek, and said : 

" Well ! and why should n't I scare 'em ? " 

" I can't hinder you, of course ; but," said Jack, 
" if you were hunting, and / should be passing by, 
I should think it a matter of honor " 

" Honor is an egg that don't hatch in this coun- 
try," interrupted the stranger ; and the quid went 
into the other cheek, while the head went over on 
the other side, as if to balance it. " But never 
mind ; 't aint my cut to interfere with another fel- 
ler's luck. Show me your deer." 

Jack took him through the thickets to his am- 
bush. There were the deer still feeding ; the old 
one lifting her head occasionally as if on the look- 
out for danger. They seemed to be moving slowly 
along the slope. 

The dark eyes of the strange youth kindled ; 
then he said, with a low laugh : 

" I 'd like a cut-bore rifle for them fellers ! You 
never can get 'em with that pop-gun." 

" I believe I can if you '11 help me. You notice 
there 's a range of hills between us and them ; and 
they are on the north slope of one. I 've been 
surveying a little of the country off south, and I 


think you can get around the range that way, a 
come out beyond the deer, before they see yi 
There 's everything in our favor. The wind bio 
to us from them. At the first alarm, they '11 st 
for the woods ; and they '11 be pretty sure to ke 
along in the hollow. I '11 watch here, and t; 
them as they come in." 

Quid and head rolled again ; and the stran 
youth said jeeringly. with one eye half-closed, loc 
ing at Jack : 

" So you expect me to travel a mile or two, a 
drive the deer in for you ? " He then pulled do 
the nether lid of the half-closed eye, and inquin 
somewhat irrelevantly, whether Jack saw anyth: 
green there. " Not by this light ! " he answei 
his own question, as he let up his eyelid a 
snapped his thumb and finger. " Ye can't ke 
old birds with chaff. I 've been through the I 
Parley- voo frongsay ? " 

Jack regarded him with astonishment, declari 
that there was no catch about it. " Only help n 
and we will share the game together." 

Still the fellow demurred. " I 've walked my 1( 
off to-day already ; you '11 find 'em back in I 
road here ! Had nothing to eat since mornin 
wore myself down lean as a rail ; felt for the 
two hours as though there was nothing but 
backbone between me and eternity ! No, sir-ri 
I would n't walk that fur out of my way for a h 
of deer. If I had a horse to ride, I would 

Jack was greatly excited. He had never yet rj 
a good shot at a deer ; and if, at the end of 
day's work, he could carry home a good fat d 
and perhaps a fawn, of his own shooting, it wo' 
be a triumph. So, without a moment's reflectii 
he said : 

"You may ride mine. Then, if you dq 
want a share of the game, I '11 pay you for yi 

The strange youth took time to shift his q - 
and balance it ; then replied, in a manner wb 
appeared provokingly cool to the fiery Jack : 

" I '11 look at him. Does he ride easy? " 

" Yes. Hurry ! " 

Jack ran down to the horse, led him into 
bushes, where the wagon could be left conceal 
and had already taken him out of the shafts, bef 
the stranger came lounging to the spot. 

" Pull off the harness," said the latter, with 
easy air of ordering a nag at a stable. " And \ 
me that blanket out of the buggy. I don't 
bare-back for nobody." 

Jack complied, though angry at the fellow 
being so dilatory and fastidious at such a tii 
The strange youth then spread his coat over 
blanket, laid his right hand on it. and his left 




lie and mane, and with a leap from the ground 
sw himself astride the horse — a display of agility 
ch took Jack by surprise. 
: I see you have been on horseback before ! " 

'." Never in my life," said the stranger, with a 
im in his dark eyes which belied his words, 
i now Jack noticed that he had a little switch in 

! hand. 

: He wont need urging. Be sure and ride well 
ond that highest hill before you turn ; and then 
le quietly around, so as not to frighten the deer 


li'he fellow laughed. "I've seen a deer before 

"jack noticed that he had a little switch 

'lay ! " And, clapping heels to the horse's sides, 
dashed through the bushes, 
ack followed a little way, and from his ambush 
' him come out of the undergrowth, strike across 
prairie, and disappear around the range of 


! .'he deer were still in sight, stopping occasionally 
eed, and then, with heads in air, moving a few 
es along the slope. Jack waited with breathless 
iety to see his horseman emerge from among 

: hills beyond. Several minutes elapsed ; then. 
ugh no horseman appeared, the old deer, 
tied by sound or scent of the enemy, threw 
h her head, and began to leap, with graceful, 
lulating movements, along the hillside. 

• 'he fawn darted after her, and for a minute they 

! VOL. II.— 12. 


were hidden from view- in a hollow. The stratagem 
had so far succeeded. They had started toward 
the woods. 

Jack, in an ague of agitation, waited for the 
game to show itself again, and. by its movements, 
guide his own. At length, the fawn appeared on 
the summit of a low hill, and stopped. The doe 
came up and stopped too, with elevated nostrils, 
snuffing. For a rifle, in approved hands, there 
would have been a chance for a shot. But the 
game was far beyond the range of Jack's gun. 

To try his nerve, however, he took aim ; or, 
rather, attempted to take aim. His hands — if the 
truth must be confessed — shook so that 
he could not keep his piece steady for 
an instant. Cool fellow enough on 
ordinary occasions, he now had a vio- 
lent attack of what is called the " buck 
fever. " 

Fortimately, the deer had not seen 
the horseman ; and, while they were 
recovering from their first alarm, they 
gave the young hunter time to subdue, 
with resolute good sense, his terrible 
nervous agitation. 

They did not stop to feed any more, 
but moved on, with occasional pauses, 
toward the woods ; following the line 
of the hollows, as Jack had foreseen. 

All this time the dog lay whining at 
his young master's heels. He knew 
instinctively that there was sport on 
foot, and could hardly be kept quiet. 

The deer took another and final 
start, and came bounding along toward 
the spot where the wagon had stood. 
But for the exxitement of the moment, 
Jack must have felt a touch of pity at 
sight of those two slender, beautiful 
creatures, so full of life, making for 
their covert in the cool woods. But 
hunter's spirit was uppermost. He took aim at 


the doe, followed her movements a moment with 
the moving gun, then fired. She plunged forward, 
and dropped dead. 

The fawn, confused by the report and by the 
doe's sudden fall, stood for an instant quite still, 
then made a few bounds up toward the very spot 
where the young hunter was concealed. It stopped 
again, within twenty paces of the leveled gun. 
There it stood, its pretty spotted side turned toward 
him, so fair a mark, and so charming a picture, that 
for a moment, excited though he was, he could not 
have the heart to shoot. Ah ! what is this spirit of 
destruction, which has come down to us from our 
barbarous forefathers, and which gives even good- 
hearted boys like Jack a wild joy in taking life ? 

i 7 8 



The dog, rendered ungovernable by the firing 
of the gun, made a noise in the thicket. The fawn 
heard, and started to run away. The provocation 
was too great for our young hunter, and he sent a 
charge of buck-shot after it. The fawn did not fall. 

" Take 'em, Lion ! " shouted Jack ; and out 
rushed the dog. 

The poor thing had been wounded, and the dog- 
soon brought it down. Jack ran after, to prevent, 
a tearing of the hide and flesh. Then he set up a 
wild yell, which might have been heard a mile 
away on the prairie, — a call for his horseman, who 
had not yet reappeared. 

Jack dragged the fawn and placed it beside its 
dam. There lay the two pretty creatures, slaught- 
ered by his hand. 

" It can't be helped," thought he. " If it is right 
to hunt game, it is right to kill it. If we eat flesh, 
we must take life." , 

So he tried to feel nothing but pure triumph at 
the sight. Yet I have heard him say, in relating 
the adventure, that he could never afterward think 
of the dead doe and pretty fawn, lying there side 
by side, without a pang. 

He now backed his buggy out of the woods, set 

the seat forward in order to make room for th 
deer behind, and waited for his horse. 

"Where can that fellow have gone?" he mu' 
tered, with growing anxiety. 

He went to a hill-top, to get a good view, an 
strained his vision, gazing over the prairie. Th 
sun was almost set, and all the hills were darkening 
save now and then one of the highest summits. 

Over one of these Jack suddenly descried a di: 
tant object moving. It was no deer this time, hi 
a horse and rider, far away, and going at a gallop- 
in the wrong direction. 

He gazed until they disappeared over the cres 
and the faint sundown glory faded from it, and 1 
felt the lonesome night shutting down over tl 
limitless expanse. Then he smote his hands t( 
gether with fury and despair. 

He knew that the horse was his own, and tl 
rider the strange youth in whose hands he had 
rashly intrusted him. And here he was, five mil 
from home, with the darkening forest on one sid 
and the vast prairie on the other ; the dead d< t 
and fawn lying down there on the dewy grass, tl 
empty buggy and harness beside them ; and on it 
his dog to keep him company. 

(Tn be continued.) 





To build a bridge of this kind, you must begin 
by placing six dominoes flat on the table and four 

_.- '" ln *ni(Si§Bip^ 


the four center ones, and then the side ones; 
ferring to Fig. I to see how to place them. 



upright, as in Fig. 2. Take care to make a close 
joint, and to keep every piece exactly in line and 
center. Then lay the pieces in the order num- 
bered, keeping each side equally advanced till they 
meet in the middle. 

The dominoes in the base may now be elevated 
to the higher positions. First cautiously remove 

Lastly, the whole is to be capped by the two ou 
uprights, and the structure should be so beat 
fully balanced that they may be gently slid fi 
under, and laid side by side on the very top. 

The bridge should be built of the ordinary doi - 
noes, as expensive ones are apt to have a proj 
ing point on the face. 







By Olive Thorne. 

What do you do on Christmas?" asked a 
e-faced little girl in a black dress, of her cousin 

'Christmas?" said Jeanie, with a puzzled look 
1 her rosy face. '■ Why, nothing; only just not 
to school." 

' Nothing ! " returned the first speaker, aghast. 
Jon't you have any Christmas-tree ? " 
>' Christmas-tree ! What 's that ? " asked Jeanie. 
' Nor hang up your stocking?" 
eanie shook her head. 

j Nor have a single bit of a present ? " May went 
in utter amazement, 
(j What for? " asked Jeanie. 
'Why, don't you know about Santa Claus, who 
nes down the chimney on Christmas Eve, and 
es everybody a present ? " said May, completely 

' Don't know nothing 'bout him," said Jeanie. 
)on't b'lieve there 's any such a person in Mis- 

ilay drew a long sigh. It was not the first time 
i had sighed since the jolting old wagon, called 
cage, had landed her. two weeks before, at her 
:le's home, a wretched, penniless orphan. 
'What is a Christmas-tree, any way?" asked 
nie, seeing that May was not going to speak. 
' Oh, it 's a beautiful green tree, covered with 
its and presents and beautiful things ! When 
mma was alive we always had one on Christmas 

' Does it grow so ? " asked Jeanie, curiously. 

' Of course not ! what a question ! " said May. 

)o you know what Christmas is, anyhow ? " she 

led, with a quick flush of color. 

'Of course I do," retorted Jeanie; "but that 
;;n't anything to do with Christmas-trees.'' 
; ' Yes it has," said May, earnestly, " a great deal 
do with them, and with every way that we have 

having everything just as sweet and lovely as 

can on that day. Mother always said so. " 

eanie opened her eyes wider, and then asked 


' But what about the Christmas-tree, May ? " 

'Well, it 's cut down and brought into the house. 

1 all the things put on before you see it, and when 

i all ready the folding-doors are opened, and — 

I ! it 's beautiful ! " May added in ecstasy. " Last 

f ristmas I had such lovely things, — the prettiest 

ii e dress you ever saw — I 've got a piece of it in 

i trunk — and new clothes for my doll ; oh, such 

nice ones ! a whole suit with overskirt, and all in 
the fashion; and a cornucopia of candies and a box 

of nuts and raisins and Oh, I can't think of 

half the things," added May, brightly, yet half 
ready to cry. 

" I wish I could see one," said Jeanie ; "but we 
don't have such things here. Ma has n't got time, 
nor anybody. " 

"I'll tell you what we can do, I guess," said 
May, who had been revolving an idea in her mind ; 
"we might get up one ourselves, — you could; of 
course it would n't be so nice as mamma's, but it 
would be better than none." 

"Well, let's!" said Jeanie, "and not tell a 
single one till it 's all done." 

" Where can we have it ? We need a fire and a 
door that '11 lock," said May. 

"Oh, Pa '11 let me have the out-room, I know, 
if I coax him," said Jeanie, " and we can put a nail 
over the latch to fasten the door." 

The out-room, you must know, was a roughly 
built room, a little apart from the house. It had a 
big open fire-place and a huge kettle, and when 
there was any big work, like making up the year's 
soap, or putting down the year's supply of salt pork, 
a great fire was built there and the out-room came 
into use. 

" Well," said May, reflectively, " I guess we can 
do it; we can trim it up, you know." 

"How?" asked Jeanie, to whom all Christmas 
ways were unknown mysteries. « 

" Oh, I '11 show you. We can get evergreens in 
the woods, and oh, some of that lovely bitter-sweet, 
and I can make paper flowers," May went on en- 
thusiastically, as ideas rushed into her mind. 
"We can have it real pretty; but don't let's tell 
anybody a thing about it." 

The next week was a very busy one to the two 
plotters. Every moment, when out of school, they 
were whispering in corners, or engaged in some 
mysterious work, which they would hide if any one 
came near. 

Mrs. Stanley was glad to see the first cheerful 
look on the face of the orphan, and did not inter- 
fere so long as the girls kept out of her way. The 
boys — of whom there were two younger and one 
older than Jeanie — were very curious, and Will — 
the older one — rather teasing about it ; but on the 
whole May and Jeanie succeeded very well in keep- 
ing their secret. 

Two days before Christmas, Jeanie followed her 




father as he started off in the morning to the barn 
to feed the cattle. Hov she managed her teasing 
I cannot say, but in a si ort time she came into the 
house, radiant, gave a mysterious nod to May, and 
they at once disappeared upstairs. 

Soon they stole dowr the back way, armed them- 
selves with brooms, materials for a fire, and a big 
nail with which to lock the door, and slipped into, 
the out-room. 

It was not a promising-looking place, but they 
were young and enthusiastic ; so Jeanie went to 
work to build up a roar- 
ing fire, and May began 
with the broom. 

Well, they worked all 
day, harder than ever 
before in their lives, and 
all the next day, and 
when at last the room 
was ready for company, 
it really looked very 

The bare walls were or- 
namented with wreaths 
of the gay bitter-sweet, 
and evergreen boughs, 
brightened by an occa- 
sional rose or lily neatly 
made by May, of thin 
white paper. The big 
kettle was transformed 
into a table by means 
of a board or two across 
the top, and a white 
sheet spread over all. 
The two windows were 
curtained with old news- 
papers, concealed by 
branches of evergreen. 
In the center of the 
room stood a tub, and 

braced up in it by stones and sticks of wood, hid- 
den by sprays of green, stood a very pretty ever- 
green-tree. There were no candles on it, for the 
united wisdom of the two workers had not been 
able to compass that. But the bright flickering 
light of the fire was enough, and in fact made just 
the right effect, as it did not reveal too much. 

On the tree were hung bits of bright ribbon and 
other pretty things out of May's trunk, — keepsakes 
from her old playmates. These were used just for 
decoration. There were long strings of popped 
corn besides. There were festoons about the 
branches, and among them a present for each one 
of the family. 

All this time, one of the girls had been obliged 
to stay in the out-room every moment to keep the 

door locked, for the boys were just wild to find ot 
the mystery. Mrs. Stanley had stopped in he 
dreary round of drudgery — for this home, you mu 
know, was the temple of work — to ask what all tb 
fuss was about. But Jeanie told her that her fathf 
said she might use the out-room ; and she was to 
busy and tired to feel much interest, — so she saif 
"well, she didn't care so 's they didn't do an 

On the eventful night, when called to suppei 
May went into the family-room, for Jeanie coul 


not tear herself away from contemplation of t 
wonderful tree. To her it was the embodiment 
everything beautiful and enchanting in the worl 
With no books but school-books, no pictures, 
papers, nothing beautiful to be seen in that lit 
grinding prairie home, she had never even cc 
ceived of anything so lovely. 

When at last they rose from the table, May sto 
ped at the door. 

" Aunt," she began timidly, — for she was rath 
afraid of the hard-working woman, whose sha 
gray eyes seemed to look through her, and whe 
thin lips never opened but to make some practii 
remark. — " will you come over with uncle and s 
our Christmas-tree? Come, boys." And s 
started off. 




i " So that 's what the young ones have been up 

[ is it ? " said Mr. Stanley, lighting his pipe. 
Come, mother, let 's go over and see what 

isy've got. That May's the beater for plans 

[tver I see one." 

"Wall," said Mrs. Stanley, pushing back the 
Die that she had already cleared, " I don't mind 
I step over a minute before I get out my dish- 
iter. I never see Jane so took up as she has been 
is week." 

They went over to the out-room. The boys were 
-eady there staring in a bewilderment of wonder, 
ay leaned against the unique table, very tired, 

'it happy, and Jeanie fairly danced around with 

" Well, well ! " said Mr. Stanley, " this looks 
mething like, now ! Why, this carries me back 
when I was a boy, away down in York State, 
d never 'a' thought you two little gals could fix 

|is old room up so pretty ; would you now, 

iother ? " 
" Mother " did n't say anything. There was a 

jrt of a choke in her throat, and something sus- 
ciously like a tear in her eye, as she looked at the 

ight, happy faces of her children — faces such as 
e had never seen since they were babies, before 
ey were initiated into the regular family grind. 
After a moment she recovered herself, went up 

I May, and, to her utter amazement, gave her a 
arm kiss, and said : 

'"It's beautiful, dear, and I thank you for it." 
nd then she looked a few minutes, and said she 

: .ust go. But Jeanie sprang up. 

; " Wait, ma ; the presents are coming yet." 

■j " Presents ! " said Mr. Stanley, " are these pres- 
ets, then ? " 

j | Oh, of course ! " said May, " else how could it 

|a a Christmas-tree ? " 

1 " Sure enough ! " said Mr. Stanley. 

\ May now went up to the tree and took down first 
pretty necktie for Will, made out of some of her 

i its of silk. 

■ " Why, that 's just the very thing I want," said 
/ill, amazed. " How did you know that, you 
itch ? and who made it ? " 

; "Jeanie and I," said May. 
" No, May made it 'most every bit," said Jeanie. 
I don't know how." 

Next came a pair of warm red mittens for 
" Jeanie made these," said May. " I can't knit." 
Well, so they went on. Mrs. Stanley had a 
retty pin-cushion for her bureau ; Mr. Stanley a 
eat bag for his tobacco ; Johnny a pair of wristlets 
3 keep his wrists warm. Each of the children had 
little bag of nicely cracked hickory-nuts, a beauti- 

II red apple and a few sticks of molasses candy. 

The girls had nothing ; they had been so busy they 
never thought of themselves. 

When the presents were] all distributed, and the 
children were busy eating nuts and candy, and 
having a merry time naming apple seeds, and doing 
other things that May taught them, Mrs. Stanley 
stole out, and went back to the kitchen to her dish- 
washing. But something was the matter, for she 
moved more slowly than ever before ; she let the 
water run over, put the soap into the milk-cup, 
and made various other blunders. She was think- 

And when all the family were in bed that night, 
and she and Mr. Stanley were sitting alone by the 
fire, she spoke her thoughts. 

"John, that tree has set me a-thinking. We 
aint doing just right by our children. It 's all work 
and no play, and they 're growing old and sober 
before their time. We 're forehanded enough now 
to let up on them a little." 

" Y'ou 're right, mother," said Mr. Stanley. 
" I 've been thinking the same thing myself. That 
little gal, with her pretty, lady-like ways, does 
make me think so much of her mother, only 't 
wa' n't natural to her to be so downhearted as the 
little one has been. But see her to-night ! I de- 
clare I 'd do anything a'most to keep that happy 
face on her. What shall we do, Sally ? " 

"Well," said Mrs. Stanley, her face unw.ontedly 
bright with new thoughts, "it isn't eight o'clock 
yet, and I 've been thinking if you 'd go to the vil- 
lage and buy a few things to put by their beds for 
Christmas it would be good. Children think so 
much of such things," she added, half apolo- 

"So it would ! and I '11 do it, wife," said Mr. 
Stanley, taking his boots out of the corner, and 
hastening to put them on. " Make out your list, 
and I '11 go down to Kenedy's. He don't shut up 
till nine." 

Kenedy's was a country store, where you could 
buy everything, from a needle to a thrashing- 
machine, and about nine o'clock Mr. Stanley came 
home with a market-basket full of things. There 
was a gay merino dress for Jeanie, a pair of skates 
for May, a new knife for Will, a sled and a picture- 
book for each of the boys. 

There was, besides these, a package of real store 
candy, some raisins, and, down under the whole, 
where Mrs. Stanley could not see it, a neat dark 
dress for her, which Mr. Stanley had bought to 
surprise her. 

Well, everybody was surprised the next morn- 
ing, you may be sure, and after the breakfast — of 
which little was eaten — Will went out and killed a 
turkey. Jeanie and May put on big aprons and 
helped ; Will chopped stuffing and suet ; and, for 




the first time in their lives, the children had a real 
Christinas dinner — plum-pudding and all. 

That was the beginning of a new life in the plain 
farm-house. Little by little, books found their way 
to the table, an easy-chair or two stole into the 
rooms, pictures made their appearance on the walls, 
and in time a wing was added to the house ! After 
awhile a neat-handed farmer's daughter came to 
help Mrs. Stanley. Shrubbery came up in the 
yard, vines began to grow over the windows, and 

the fence had a new coat of paint. Now that shi 
was not always tired out, Mrs. Stanley began t< 
go out among her neighbors ; friendly visits sue 
ceeded, then a tea-party. Will joined the boo! 
club in the village, and Mrs. Stanley invited then 
to meet at her house in turn, and, in fact, som( 
innocent pleasures came into these hard-workinf 
lives, and all owing, as Mr. Stanley would say 
holding the bright, happy May on his knee, " t( 
this little girl's Christmas-tree." 


By W. N. Meeks 

|homas and Hannah lived quite 
alone in a little house in the 
middle of a great forest. Their 
father was an under-forester, 
and all day long, in good 
weather and bad, he had to 
watch or else shoot birds and 
hares for the prince's table. 
Their mother was dead, and nobody was at home in 
the little house with the children but their old grand- 
mother, who was almost blind and could hardly 
hear. When she was not asleep, or hobbling around 
the kitchen to cook the children's dinner, she sat 
by the fire and spun. Weeks sometimes passed 
without anybody visiting the forester's hut ; but 
in summer the children did not care about this, 
because they went day after day to the village to 
school, and that was a great pleasure. But in win- 
ter it was very gloomy and tedious. Then the 
snow was deep in the forest, and the children had 
to keep in the house, like two little mice in a hole. 
The father had to go out often, and always took 
Watch, the great spaniel and their only playfellow, 
with him. The old grandmother used to tell fairy- 
tales, but now she had almost forgotten them all. 
and spoke to hardly anybody but herself. Little 
Hannah sat at her grandmother's side spinning, 
but it was a tiresome work in the silence. Thomas 
tried to carve figures of dogs and rabbits out of 
wood ; but they never turned out well, and he cut 
his fingers so often that he became impatient, and 
gave up the business as a bad one. He often used 
to say : 

"Ah, how nice the rich children have it. I'd 
like to be the young lord that I once saw drive in 
his carriage through the village, or one of the 
steward's children, who can eat as often as they 

want to, or one of the gypsy boys, who can go ou 
whenever they like." 

One evening, not long before Christmas, it wa 
particularly quiet and gloomy. The lamp oil 
which the grandmother made of beech-nuts, hai 
come to an end ; the wa)' to the village was so ful 
of snow that Liese had not been able to come 6 
them. So they were there without any oil, an. 
could not light the lamp. Fortunately the clea 
moon shone into the room ; but the children wer 
half afraid of the deep shadows which lay upon Sri 
bright floor. 

Little Hannah nestled closely at her grand 
mother's side, and Thomas stood beside her, an. 
screamed in her ear : 

"Grandmother, now tell us only once mor 
little story. Oon't you know any more ? " 

"Not un, Bubby, not un ; f'rgotten all," mumble] 
the old woman. 

"But only one, grandmother: only one abou 
the little dwarf in the quarry." 

"In the quarry? Yes; wait, Bubby, let ni 
think and see if I knuw it." Then she added ver 
quickly, and in her old distinct way : 

" Where the quarry is, down there in the glen 
long, long ago, the rocks stood fast and just lik 
a wall. There was n't a single stone broken ofi 
and before the rocks was a green, fresh place 
Under that the dwarfs used to live. They use 
to carry things down there to the dwarf-queen ' 
palace, and had a merry little town below. Ther 
were not yet any hunters, nor stone-cutters, nc 
wood-choppers in the still forest. Ah, no : the 
on sunny days all the little dwarfs came out an 
sunned themselves on the green moss, and playe 
and danced and were right merry. At last, peopl 
who lived on the plain outside of the forest b 


I8 3 

[ 1 to build houses, and they came into the forest 

; d chopped down trees and carried away great 

: nes. The dwarfs became very much frightened, 

. d feared that their beautiful rocky wall, their 

ncing-green, and their little city would be ruined. 

to stop the people from cutting away the stone 

m their rock, they went by night into the forest 

d dug up big stones, and rolled them with all 

:;ir might to the edge of the forest. But the 

ople were not satisfied. They found the beauti- 

rocky wall, and dug stones from it. The great 

avy stones fell upon the dancing-green. Then 

2 little city was destroyed, and there was loud 

tiling among the dwarfs. 

r 'The dwarfs, who were not killed, dug themselves 

way far into the forest. Where they live now, or 

lether they have built themselves another little 

wn, nobody knows. Ever since then they have, 

the night, rolled out many stones, but new ones 

ways fall in again, and every year, on St. Thomas' 

ght, they come to see if so many stones still lie 

i the ground ; and if anybody should roll out 

ree stones on that night, the dwarfs would grant 

m any wish that he might ask." 

i That is what the grandmother said. She had 

pt said so much for a long time, and was therefore 

jite tired. Little Hannah became afraid even of 

arself, and nestled up more closely to her grand- 

lother ; but Thomas, with glowing cheeks and 

; oarkling eyes, wondered if the little dwarfs yet 

irime. Just then they heard Watch barking out- 

de, and the father stalked in, cross and chilled. 

Ie sought in the dark for something to eat, for, as 

sual, the old grandmother had forgotten to keep 

ny supper for him. He found nothing, and so 

■ent hungry to bed. 

This night Thomas could hardly sleep. He had 

eard the story more than once, but what the 

;randmother had said about the dwarfs being able 

till to come, that he had not known. Now his 

teart beat wildly with pleasure, as he thought how 

r ie could brighten up the melancholy loneliness of 

heir forest life with the treasures of the dwarf 

rarld, especially now, while there were yet only 

wo days before St. Thomas' night. 

On St. Thomas' night the father came home 
:arly, and before the grandmother had put out the 
.amp he was fast asleep. Thomas waited until 
Hannah was asleep. He had told her nothing, for 
.ie knew she would not go. As for his grand- 
mother, she could not hear him even if she were 
iwake. Soon everything was quiet. He had not 
undressed himself, so that he had only to draw his 
fur cap over his ears, and then he slipped out. 

The moon shone clearly, and it was so death- 
like still in the forest that Thomas shuddered at 
first ; but he soon grew brave again, and went 

softly but quickly over the well-known road to the 
quarry. Not even a mouse stirred as he came down 
into the glen. Hardly a moonbeam shone on the 
broken stone, which looked really very dreadful. 
With timid steps, he crept softly to the place where 
the dwarfs' dancing-green had been, and where yet 
a great number of large and little stones lay. With 
trembling hands he grasped the largest ones that 
he could handle and dragged them away. Just as 
he had rolled away the third, a thin, little voice 
called out : 

" Who 's there ? " And on the only spot in the 
glen where the moonlight fell, stood a mite of a 
man in green clothing. It was he who had asked 
the question. 

"Thomas, the under-forester's son,'' answered 
the boy, very much frightened, and at the same 
time respectfully taking off his cap. 

" What do you want there ? " 

" Only to take away stones, so that the little 
gentlemen can come back again." 

" That wont help much," said the dwarf, sadly ; 
" but it is very good in you, and you shall not do 
it for nothing. What do you wish ? " 

Thomas could not decide upon anything, and 
yet he knew of so many things that he wished. 
He thought of a horse, so that he could ride to 
school; of a whole cask full of oil, so that the little 
lamp might not go out any more ; of°a bag full of 
apples and nuts, — but they were all hardly worth 
the trouble. At last he stammered out : 

" A big purse full of money." 

" So," said the dwarf, "do you know the use of 
that already ? What will you do with the money ? " 

" Oh, lots of things. Instead of our hut, I '11 
build a great, great fjouse, larger than the forester's 
house in the village," continued Thomas, somewhat 
encouraged, " and a stable full of beautiful horses, 
so that I may ride when it snows, and buy a new- 
cloak for Hannah, and a whole cask full of oil, that 
we may not be in the dark. " 

" Ei, ei ; what else ? " laughed the dwarf. " The 
house, you shall build, but not in the dark forest. 
You shall also go out into the world, but you don't 
need a horse for that. Hannah can get a new 
cloak without you; and you can get oil enough 
yourself. If you will come with your little basket 
to the quarry, you will always find beech-nuts 
enough to fill your little lamp with oil for two years. 
So I think that you do not need the purse of money 
yet awhile. You are too young for it. " 

"Ah," said Thomas, low-spiritedly, "if it were 
only not so gloomy and tiresome in the long winter, 
— if we had only a pretty picture-book while the 
evenings are so long." 

" Now," said the dwarf, " that is better. Only 
go home and believe what I say, and after Christ- 

1 84 



mas I will come to you and take care that the time 
shall never be so long in winter. Be only content ; 
the little dwarfs do not forget to reward those who 
help them." 

The dwarf disappeared. Thomas shivered, and 
went home more quickly and with a lighter heart 
than he had come. He opened the door, slipped 
into the house, into the little chamber, and into his 
warm bed without being seen or heard. All night 
long he dreamed of the dwarfs. He made up his 
mind not to tell little Hannah his secret, but to 
wait quietly until Christmas. 

Christmas came, and there was joy even in the 

him to drive away the tediousness of the gloom' 
winter, suddenly he heard a light knock on thi 
house door. His heart beat quickly, and witl 
trembling hands he lifted the latch. In steppet 
the little man in green clothes. He brought noth 
ing but a small piece of colored glass. 

" Lead me to your room ! " said he, and steppec 
quickly and yet more softly than Thomas could int< 
the little bedroom. By the light that came from hi: 
little glass, he looked around the room. Then 
was not much to see ; the old bedstead, a ricketj 
table with three legs, and a couple of chairs. Th< 
greatest piece of furniture in the room was a larg< 




little hut. The father brought from the village 
as many nuts and apples as he could carry. 
The head forester's maid, who was the children's 
godmother, brought them two magnificent ginger- 
bread hearts, and gave to Hannah a beautiful new 
cloak, and to Thomas a good warm jacket. The 
father spent the day at home, and himself dressed 
a hare for supper. They had not eaten anything 
so good for a long time. But Thomas could not 
enjoy himself so much as he might have done. 
He thought all the while of something better that 
was yet to come. 

It was night again. Everybody but Thomas was 
fast asleep. As he sat with his clothes on, wide 
awake, wondering what his new friend would bring 

chest, black with age, which was fastened in the 
wall, and which often served the children as a hid- 
ing-place when they played " hide-and-seek." Ir 
the front of this chest was a large round hole, thai 
always seemed frightful to Hannah as often as 
she saw it, because it looked so black. The 
dwarf seemed to have perceived it. He slipped 
into the chest, and after a little hammering : " So,' ; , 
said he, as he came out, "now the tediousness i 
cared for. Little one, if time becomes long again, 
then look at the round hole in your chest. Look 
only mornings and evenings when you are alone. I 
Good night, my boy. God take care of you ! '] 
And before Thomas knew what had happened, thcl 
dwarf was gone. The boy hardly understood what 


I8 5 

1 meant, and not daring to look into the chest 
lediately, he lay down beside his father. While 
vondered whether the dwarf had spoken in jest 
:i earnest, he fell fast asleep. 
1 he next morning the father went out early, 
imas could not keep his secret any longer, so 
whispered the whole story to his sister as she sat 
spun beside her deaf grandmother. She 
ned to it half laughing, half afraid, and told 
that he must have dreamt it all. However, 
■ lersuaded her to make the first trial that even- 
That day was very long to the children, 

I waited impatiently for the evening. The 
er was still away in the evening, and the 
iidmother nodded in her chair. Then the chil- 
1 went timidly but eagerly to the chest, and 
i the lid. Thomas, the bolder-hearted, was 
first to look at the hole, where now shone 

! htly the glass which the dwarf had put in. 
it a beautiful sight met his eyes ! He drew the 
lbling Hannah down to his side, for the open- 
was large enough for both to look through at 
same time. It was splendid ! The children 
d hardly resist screaming with wonder and de- 
t. They saw a long, wide parlor that was 
;nificently lighted by golden lights, but mostly 
1 high, richly decorated Christmas-tree, from 
•:h the light of many hundred colored tapers 
lamed. The table before the tree was covered 

II beautiful toys — play-soldiers, cavalry and in- 
ry — whole regiments of them, with cannon 
! wagons ; there was a complete royal stable full 
]l sorts of little horses ; there were pretty picture- 

cs, and a multitude of playthings such as the 
• little forest children had never before seen, 
>ng which were a pair of silver spurs and a 
e-whip, a gun and sword, a complete boy-uni- 
1 trimmed with gold. All these fine things were 
ly arranged on the table, and with them little 
:ets and plates of the choicest confectionery. 
Oh, dear, who'll get all that?" sighed the 

! ist then the door opened, and a thin, pale boy 
)! ;n years stepped into the parlor. Behind him 
'e beautifully dressed ladies and gentlemen. 
>mas and Hannah expected that a whole band 
-.hildren must come to share these splendid 
;ents, and looked for the others. But there was 
'■> the one boy. He smiled faintly, and did 
seem surprised as he glanced at the beautiful 
gs, and hardly noticed them, while Thomas 
1 Hannah pressed their glowing faces against 
: glass and almost devoured the splendor with 
1 r eyes. 

Where are you, children ? " now called the 
'- of the grandmother. Startled, they drew 
f ' heads- back, and everything was as dark as 

before. The old chest looked as if nothing at all 
had happened. They were as if in a dream when 
they came back to the light of the little oil-lamp 
and sat again in the old sooty room. 

" Ah, how well off the young lord is," they often 
said. ''Oh, if we only had what he has," they 
sighed, even when sleep closed their eyes to show 
them the splendor yet once more in their dreams. 

Before it was yet quite day, Hannah glided into 
the bedroom. This time the father had not come 
home, so that they could so much more safely look 
into the wonderful chest. They wished very much 
to see again the beautiful parlor. Sure enough, 
there it was in clear daylight, almost as beautiful as 
by the light of the festal candles. There were all 
the fine playthings, but better arranged. The boy 
who had been there yesterday was lying in a silk 
dressing-gown upon the sofa. A number of pretty 
books were scattered around him. He seemed tired 
and restless. As the children were looking and 
wondering how any one could not be pleased and 
happy with such beautiful things, one of the doors 
opened and an old gentleman came in. The chil- 
dren could hear him say, as if he were far away,, 
but yet distinctly : 

"What! already wearied, dear prince? And 
yet you have so many things that would make 
other children happy." 

''What other children?" asked the prince. 
" Other children are not alone. I have already seen 
all of my things. I wish I could go out like other 
children. I 'd like to go out alone, and go where I 
choose. 1 'd rather be a gypsy boy than a prince." 

Before the astounded children could hear any- 
more, the grandmother called them, and they 
hastily dropped the lid. 

Full of joy and expectation, they chattered all 
day long, and could hardly wait until evening before 
their little faces were pressed against the glass. 
This time they did not see the parlor, but a forest, 
quite like that in which they lived. They saw a 
large open place in this forest. In the middle was 
a cheerful fire, before which some fine game was 
roasting. Near by sat a number of browned and 
ragged people, several of whom were playing a 
lively tune on instruments of music, to which a 
band of joyful children sprang and danced around. 

A young gypsy came with a bag full of dried 
fruits. The children received him with shouts of 
joy. He emptied the bag on the ground. The 
children fell greedily upon the fruits, and, scramb- 
ling for them like little pigs, feasted to their hearts' 
delight, after which they began again all sorts of 
merry wild games, 90 that Thomas wished very 
much to spring in among them, and was quite pro- 
voked when his father just then came home and 
called loudlv from the kitchen. 

1 86 



Early the next morning, before his father was 
awake, he looked at the glass, without waiting for 
Hannah, who came in lightly after awhile. 

Yes, there was once more the open place in the 
forest, but it did not seem to be so cheerful. It 
was morning. The fire was out. There was a 
wild, anxious running hither and thither among 
the gypsies. Presently the children saw soldiers 
coming near, and soon after, in the great tumult 
that still continued, the poor gypsies were captured 
and led away, because the)- had been accused of 
robbery and theft. The children would see no 
more of it, and turned away from the glass. 

That evening the children went to the wonderful 
chest, and they saw a very handsome room, — not 
so elegant as the prince's parlor, but yet much 
more beautiful than their godmother's room, — with 
brightly colored tapestry and pretty pictures on the 
walls. It was full of playthings for boys and girls. 
There was a fine baby-house, with little ladies and 
gentlemen dressed in handsome clothes and sitting 
on little sofas and chairs in the parlor. There was 
a little kitchen full of white china tea services, and 
more little plates and pitchers than all the crockery 
and tinware in the old grandmother's kitchen put 
together. There were dolls, big and little, — some 
almost as large as Hannah herself, — cradles, little- 
chairs and carriages. On the other side of the room 
stood a fortress with soldiers ; a store well provided 
with raisins, almonds, sugar and figs ; a carrier's 
wagon with trunks and valises ; a pile of picture- 
books. — in short, almost as much as the prince- 
had. The children were full of admiration and 
joy. Suddenly^ the possessors of all these elegant 
things — two girls and a boy — entered. Evidently 
they had just returned from a walk. The girls 
went immediately to the baby-house, and the boy 
to the store. One of the girls went with bright 
new pennies to exchange them with her brother 
for candies, and the other began to dress her dolls 
out of a little chest full of pretty dresses and hats. 

Ah, how sorry were Thomas and Hannah as just 
then their grandmother called them to supper. 

Sleeping and waking, they still dreamed of what 
they had seen, and hastened early the next morn- 
ing to see the lucky children again. 

The room did not look as beautiful as before. 
The dolls lay upon the floor, and one of the little 
girls stood crying and screaming beside them 
The evening before she had left them on the floor 
and the room door open. The cat had come in 
and had played with the painted dolls, had torn 
their silk dresses and scratched their pretty faces. 

" You 're to blame for it," said one of the chil- 
dren. " You left them lying here." 

" No, it was you," cried the other. 

Then they began to dispute about a little sugar- 

loaf that one of the girls had in her kitchen, ; 
which the boy claimed as belonging to his stc 
In their quarrel the girl pushed against the stc 
so that many of the little glasses fell down 
were broken. In anger and spite, the boy jumj 
upon the little kitchen and kicked it about, so I 
all the crockery and tinware were broken to piec 
Then followed such screaming and crying and yj 
ing and quarreling, that the forest children 
gladly away, not wishing to see any more. 

"Now what do you think, Thomas," asl 
Hannah, " that all the children in the world 
unhappy? " 

" No, indeed." replied he eagerly, " that can! 
be ; for if the little prince had not been qt 
alone " 

"And," interrupted Hannah, "the gypsy cl 
dren had only had good fathers and mothers, a 
the three children had not been so quarrelsor 
Yes, see, when people arc- good and contented i 
happy and well and love one another, then tl 
can be happy." 

• ' Even if they are so poor and lonely as we are 
asked Thomas. 

Hannah could not really say yes. 

That evening the grandmother fell asleep v 
early. They almost feared to look at the gl 
again, for everything came to such a sorry endi - 
However, they made up their minds to try it o: 
more. As they put their faces to the glass tl 
almost screamed out aloud : 

" There is our kitchen and our own selves ! ' 

So, in truth, it was — only the room looked ligh .. 
and pleasanter than usual. It was much clea 
and in good order. The window-panes were 
clean and clear that they shone. On the wind 
seat stood some forest flowers that looked bea 
fully green against the snow outside. In a wiL 
cage, such as Thomas had often seen the fanr . 
boys make, hopped a little bird, that seemed to 
better in the warm kitchen than in the snow, fo 
sang and whistled so sweetly that it was a pleas . 
to hear it. And there, at her little spinning-whi 
sat the old grandmother, and by her side | 
Hannah, and Thomas was not far away, "but neit 
was so tired and sorrowful as before. They he 
themselves singing a pretty little song which tl 
had already learned at school, but which it 1 
never before occurred to them to sing at hoi 
It sounded lovely, and the old grandmother seen 
very much pleased with it, for she kept time 
nodding her head in a friendly manner. A 
they had finished the song, then the Thomas t 
they saw through the glass reached up to the si 
over grandmother's bed and took down a large 
book that had long lain there, covered with fli 
ever since she had been unable to read even « 


I8 7 

;les. The children were astonished. They 
: irned to read well, but had never thought of 

■ thing as reading at home. The Thomas in 
iss began to read aloud, so loudly that the 
nother could hear. At hrst he did not read 
.ore distinctly than the real Thomas could 
lone, but the reading soon became better. 
ad the story of Joseph, which the children 
ready heard, but so long ago that it sounded 
' and beautiful that they listened eagerly to 
homas in the glass until they heard a dog 

That was also just like Watch's bark. Then 
mnah in the glass rose quickly, placed a pair 

■ shoes near the fire and hung her father's 
coat before it. Soon the father entered with 
I Thomas drew off his wet coat and carried 
lis gun, and Hannah brought the warm shoes 
y coat. 

children gazed with surprise at their busy 
s. Hitherto they had always let their father 
and go, and had never even thought that one 
care for him also. The father in the picture 
I surprised at the little services of his children, 
as much more friendly than the real father' 
illy was. He seated himself at the table, and 
ah had a good, warm supper for him, which 
rly had generally been forgotten, because the 
mother could never remember to save it. 
ither patted Hannah on the shoulders, which 
d never done before, and began to talk about 
saintly mother, who had also cared so kindly 
x. ; and that was so remarkable to the chil- 
:hat they would not have come away from the 
if the grandmother had not called them to 

I', bed. 

'2 next morning a new life entered into the 
en. Hannah turned and cleaned the furni- 
washed the windows and cleared up the room 
iroughly that the grandmother, as in a dream, 
, " Is it a feast-day? " 

ere was not time to plant flowers, but Thomas 
;ht a couple of pine branches from the forest, 
which they neatly dressed the room. Then 
helped the grandmother to prepare the break- 

1 Formerly she had always had that trouble 
It was quite good, and tasted much better 
.'m than ever before. Then Hannah sat down 
her grandmother to spin, and Thomas climbed 
n a chair and brought the Bible, which was 
is dusty as in the picture, and began to spell 
he words. The grandmother listened very at- 

tentively. As the reading became more and more 
distinct, and as, for the first time in many years 
that she had not been able to go to church or even 
to read at home, she heard from her little grand- 
son's lips the beloved word of God, her old heart 
became full of joy, she folded her hands on her lap 
and nodded approvingly, while bright tears gathered 
in her eyes. He was quite pleased to see what 
effect his reading had, and read on more earnestly. 

Hannah listened and spun, not noticing how 
the morning passed, until the grandmother arose 
to cook the potatoes. Thomas immediately sprang 
up and said, "Wait, Granny; I'll help you." 
They fetched water from the little well in the yard, 
washed the potatoes and stirred up the fire. It was 
a perfect pleasure. The grandmother clasped her 
hands in wonder. Such potatoes they had never 
before eaten. In the afternoon, it occurred to 
them to sing. They tried it at first in a low voice, 
but soon they sang more heartily and clearly, and 
the grandmother listened as if dreaming, and 
smiled more than she had for years. How they 
enjoyed themselves when the father came home ! 
How astonished he was at the loving attentions of 
his children, which no one had shown him since 
his good wife had been carried to her grave. 
Everything came to pass as in the mirror. His 
heart warmed under the warm house-coat and from 
the kindness of his children. 

" You must see how beautifully Thomas reads," 
the grandmother said, and brought her old prayer- 
book. The father, who for so many years had for- 
gotten the prayers, heard with pride and joy how 
well his boy read. As the holy words fell from his 
child's lips they sank deep into his heart. 

The children had never before gone to bed feel- 
ing so happy as on this evening. 

Now every day did not continue so new and fresh 
as this, but the children continued to work with 
heartfelt joy. The angel of prayer was drawn in 
and made this quiet forest-hut a little church full 
of peace and love. The children took less pleasure 
now in the wonderful mirror. They felt that it 
could not show them anything better than their 
own dear home, especially when the joyful spring 
came; and they already thought of how they could 
make their little house pleasant and cheerful for the 
next winter. 

All of us have our house, or cottage, or little 
room. Shall we not seek to make it as bright and 
happy as did the forest children their lonely hut ? 



By Carrie Gerrish. 

Well, boys, what are you looking at so eagerly? 
Only a piece of coal, do you say, Charlie ? I 
should n't suppose you could find anything worth 
looking at in a smutty piece of coal. Ah, well ! I 
am glad my boys have found that only a piece of 
coal, as Charlie calls it, is worth looking at. 

I think I can tell you something about it that 
will make you open your eyes wider still. You 
know how astonished and puzzled you were the 
other night at the tricks of the " magic-man," who 
turned beans into sugar-plums, and did all sorts of 
wonderful things before your very eyes. Now this 
piece of coal is the most wonderful piece of magic 
in the world. Suppose I tell you that this hard 
black lump once had life. Yes, it did, Ned, though 
you need n't look as if you expected it to walk 
off now. It would n't have done that when it 
was alive. It grew and moved, yet was not an 

Can you guess what it was ? That 's right ; it 
was a plant — a beautiful green plant. Yes, I 'm in 
earnest. That black lump is really one of the most 
wonderful things in the world. It was once a deli- 
cate little plant, turning ever to the sun, and bend- 
ing and nodding with every breeze. It is almost 
beyond belief, and I don't wonder that you shake 
your heads. Many people older than you would 
do the same if told that the coal, to which they 
owe so much, and which they use quite as a matter 
of course, once made up great forests which covered 
vast areas. They know it comes somehow out of 
the earth, and as long as it continues to come, and 
does n't cost more than so much a ton, they don't 
bother themselves with questions as to what it 
is. I have no doubt many regard it as a peculiar 
kind of rock. I want my boys to know better, 
and so let us see if we can't explain the mystery 
about it.' 

Well, then, in the first place, plants are com- 
posed principally of two gases and a substance 
called carbon. The gases are oxygen and hydro- 
gen. You can easily remember the word car- 
bon. Now when a plant begins to decay, these 
two gases escape into the air, while the carbon 
stays and forms coal. So remember that coal is 
chiefly carbon, and it gets the carbon from plants. 

You think, Charlie, that if plants make coal 
there must be a good lot of it in our big forests ? 
Well, here is another strange thing. You see how 
one wonderful thing leads to another. You would 

find scarcely any coal in those big forests 
there are tons upon tons of leaves that fall I 
ground every year, and I have just said they 
precisely what coal comes from. How am I ; 
to explain that ? Listen. 

I said that coal was formed from vege 
matter. I did n't say that all vegetable m 
formed coal. It does so only under certain o 
tions. As the leaves and plants fall to the gro 
they lie exposed to the air, and decay, whei 
two gases — oxygen and hydrogen — escape, 
carbon goes too, so that nothing is left for 
You don't see, then, how coal ever was made 
am going to tell you. 

Since it has been proved that coal does i 
from plants, and that our vegetation nowa 
makes little or no coal, we know that when 
great beds of coal were formed everything 
have been specially arranged for it. The 
was n't then as it,is now. It was just sky and v 
with here and there patches of land. There 
great marshes everywhere. Sometimes these w 
dry up and become dry land. Then again th 
would come rushing in over the land, and 
new marshes. There were no birds in the air 
people upon the land. Only reptiles and rnj 
loving beasts roamed around in the soft clay, 
was quiet and desolate, yet it was not a dreary I 
In the marshes and on the land grew beat 
trees. Plants ran wild everywhere. It was a v 
of living green. Now, it was simply on accom 
the marshy land that this vegetation made 
while our own does not. 

I told you that a time was specially plannec 
coal-making. As the plants and leaves deca 
they fell into the water. The gases could 
escape, but the carbon, being covered from 
action of the air, was left. This is the simpt 
planation. Silently, and with no human ey 
see, the work went on year after year, century, 

A few of the plants in those days of gig; 
forests were like what we have — beautiful fen 
large as many trees. Such now grow only ir 
tropics. " Horse-tails," as you call them, ' 
are now seldom over two feet high, grew 
as high as twenty feet. Conifers, like our firs 
pines and cedars, were very abundant. But 
two most important trees in coal-making havi 
tirely disappeared from our forests. One of t 


branches, but was covered with leaves and 
d with a cluster at the top. Sometimes they 
I ixty feet high. 

you don't see how we know that trees did 
coal ? There are several reasons. If you 
put a piece of coal under a microscope, and 
re it carefully, you would see the vegetable 
in it. It is the best proof we could have, 
besides, in many places stems and leaves are 
in the coal, and sometimes trunks of trees 
mding in the beds. Again, wood contains 
>r sand, and this is found also in coal. You 

don't understand it as well as I hope you will when 
you are older; but you can believe it now, and 
some day prove it for yourselves. 

I want you to look at this bright, beautiful dia- 
mond. Put that black, smutty piece of coal by the 
side of it. Would n't you think they had about as 
little in common as any two things in the world ? 
Yet they are made of the same substance — carbon. 
And although diamonds are the most valuable of 
gems, and eagerly sought after, the world could get 
along without them much better than without their 
black and often despised relation. 


^i^^W^ ? " ''^ K ^i&& vMi^X *' 


the multitude of books for young folks, nowadays, 
are so many that are foolish or harmful, it is pleas- 
) find a really capital and healthy story. Such a 
is Antony Bmde, by Robert Lowell; published by 
rts Brothers, Boston, 

L Lowell, as some of our young readers may know, 
\ a book for grown-up folks some time ago, with 
tie of The New Priest in Conception Bay. That 
! was very much liked; but Antony Brade, we 

lid say, has more heart in it, and it must be a great 

j te with the boys. Indeed, Mr. Lowell must have 
;ht so, or he would not have said, as he does at the 

fining of his book, that it was written lovingly for 

>, who have been boys, or are boys, or like boys. 

-■itory is one of school-days ; and the hearty out-door 
he hockey-playing, the trapping and the school- 
uarrels, are just enough seasoned with study and 
■learning to make the picture of young life all the 

5 real. There is a harmless little mystery in the 
, and a good deal of fun ; and if anybody, man or 
can read the account of the disaster on the ice-pond 
mt some springing of moisture in the eyes, we 
d not like to make his acquaintance. There ought 
more such bright, fascinating and wholesome books 

, ntony Brade. 

;e multitude of St. Nicholas readers will be glad 
sar that Mr. Trowbridge's story of Fast Friends 

has been issued in book form by J. R Osgood & Co. of 
Boston. It makes a very enticing volume of 282 pages, 
with many illustrations. This story, as most of our 
young friends will agree, is one of the very best Mr. 
Trowbridge ever wrote. It reads like a chapter out of 
real life; and the reader is led on from page to page, 
with an affectionate interest in the fortunes of the two 
lads who were trying their desperate fortunes in a great 
city. There are a great many young chaps like Jack 
and George making their way in New York; and it 
really seems a pity that the tale of their trials and tri- 
umphs, sorrows and fun, could not have so delightful a 
historian as the author of Fast Friends. 

Hazel Blossoms, by John Greenleaf Whittier. Boston: 
James R. Osgood & Co. — The true poet is always 
young at heart, and so this book, though written for 
grown men and women, will have a charm for you all. 
Such poems as " Conductor Bradley, " "Sumner," and 
"The Prayer of Agassiz " hardly can fail to stir young 
souls and bring out the best bravery of boyhood and 
girlhood. Three-fourths of this volume are filled with 
Mr. Whittier's recent productions, and the remainder 
with the poems of his sister, Elizabeth H. Whittier. Of 
these last, you will be interested, we think, in the lines 
entitled, " Dr. Kane in Cuba,' 7 especially after reading 
Mr. Whittier's preface. 




Mischief's Thanksgiving, and other Stories. By 
Susan Coolidge. Illustrated by Addie Ledyard. Bos- 
ton : Roberts Bros. — Now and then, girls, comes a 
story-book that once read becomes a part of our lives. 
Such an one is this by Susan Coolidge. When we have 
said that it is fresh, cheery, bracing, fragrant and clear, we 
have only told you of the atmosphere that hangs about 
its living scenes and events. Mischief, Little Roger, 
Ellie, and Ricket, in these stories are real children, 
almost as real as little Fredrika Bremer, Jeanette Berg- 
lind, and other "Girls of the Far North," of whom our 
author gives you delightful sketches in this same volume. 

The Hanging of the Crane. By Henry Wadsworth 
Longfellow. With illustrations. Boston: James R. 
Osgood & Co. — This is not the pathetic story of a poor 
crane that came to his death by hanging. Not at all. 
In the days when great chimney-places and open wood 
fires were in fashion, a swinging iron crane stretched 
forth from the inner side of the fire-place, like an arm, 
ready to hold pot or tea-kettle over the blaze. So it 
came to be understood that to hang the crane in a new 
house was really to turn the house into a home, and to 
offer a fit occasion for merry-making and congratula- 
tions. Therefore is "The Hanging of the Crane" sung 
by our great poet Longfellow ; and that his verse may 
have a worthy setting, the publishers have made a 
superb book filled with such pictures as America has 
hardly produced before — exquisite in art and beautiful as 
can be conceived. The artists, Thomas Moran and 
Mary A. Hallock, are well known to you by their work 
in St. Nicholas, and we heartily congratulate them 
upon their great success in illustrating Mr. Longfellow's 
latest poem. 

More Bed-time Stories. By Louise Chandler Moulton. 
Illustrated by Addie Ledyard. Boston : Roberts Bros. 
— We can speak as heartily of this volume as we did of 
the first " Bed-time Stories," which is saying^ a good 
deal. " Against Wind and Tide " and " Blue sky and 
White Clouds" are good stories charmingly told, but, 
like the others in this volume, they end too soon. Mrs. 
Moulton could have made two books out of her material. 

Lolly Dinks' 's Doings. By his mother, old Mrs. Dinks 
(alias Elizabeth Stoddard). Boston: William F. Gill & 
Co. — Mrs. Stoddard is one of the strongest and best of 
American novelists, although she does not by any means 
confine herself to pleasant, heartsome incidents, and 
model men and women. Therefore, when the same lady 
writes a book about Lolly Dinks, we do not expect to 
find a model little boy ; and a model boy Lolly Dinks 
certainly is not. He is simply his own startling little 
self, bewitching sometimes in his baby way, but not to 
be imitated on any account. In short, if ever a naughty 
darling stood glorified in the light of mother-love — if 
ever a sweet little ruffian wore bright fancies and tender 
thoughts as naturally as other babies wear pinafores, that 
naughty darling and sweet little ruffian is Lolly Dinks. 

Another new book which boys and girls will welcome 
is one by our beloved contributor, Olive Thome, entitled 
Little Folks in Feathers and Fur, and Others in Neither, 
and published by Dustin, Oilman & Co., of Hartford, 
Conn. It tells all about a great many of the wonderful 
little creatures in the world, and in the fresh, clear, sim- 
ple way that has made its author a favorite among young 
readers. It has also a large number of interesting illus- 
trations that will help you to remember what you read. 
We recommend this handsome book, and advise all the 
boys and girls who want to become acquainted with its 
'Tittle folks" — and what bov or girl does not? — to read 
and study it. 


Moonfolk, by Jane G. Austin (G. P. Putnam's Sc 
is one of those stories of the curious adventures 
little girl in Fairy-land, which would be very intere 
and original if Alice in Wonderland had never 
written. Little Rhoda meets with "The Old Wo 
who Lived in a Shoe," with " Sinbad the Sailor, 
" Margery Daw," and a great many other good 1 
from Mother Goose, and she has pretty much the s if 
■,ort of a time with them that Alice had with her frj 
in "Wonderland." The illustrations to this book 
by Mr. Linton, the famous engraver, and they are i - 
excellent ; just as quaint and delicate in the drai 
and exquisite in the engraving as they can be. 

Risen from the Ranks is the seventh of the " Luck 
Pluck Series," written by Mr. Horatio Alger, and 
lished by Mr. Loring of Boston. Like the other b 
of the series, this is a story of an ambitious and strai 
forward boy, who, after some hard struggles, becari 
man of influence and importance. Harry Walt 
example will fire the heart of many a young rea 
who will see how it is possible to achieve a great sue 
in life after a very small beginning. The book 
that can be honestly commended to young folks, tho 
we do really think that Mr. Alger ought to explain t 
how Oscar's father, who begins the story as an I 
merchant, ends it as a Boston editor. 

To Brave and Bold, another of Mr. Alger's s'toj |° 
we cannot award like praise. The story is of 
"sensational" order, while the characters are sucl e 
we do not meet in real life — and we are very glad 
we don't meet them. The book appears more hurri 
composed than some of the author's other works, 
this may account for its deficiencies 

All children, who are good children, love Hans CI 
tian Andersen, and they will therefore be glad to 1 
that Messrs. Scribner, Armstrong & Co. have rece 
issued an excellent edition of Andersen's Fairy l\ 
The fairy tales written by the German brothers Grj 
have also been issued by the same house. These t 
have long been deservedly popular, and this collect 
as well as that of the Andersen stories, has been ed 
and arranged for children by Mrs. Paull. 

Childhood Songs. By Lucy Larcom. (Illustrati 
Boston : James R. Osgood & Co. — Our St. Nicho 
readers need only to be told of a book, written from 
ginning to end by Lucy Larcom, to be anxious to se 
— and a lovely book this is. "Prince Hal and li 
Queen Maude," to whom it is dedicated, must be V 
happy little ones with these delightful poems and b 
pictures before them. And how fine it is that other 
princes and queens, and all who love little children,! 
share their enjoyment ! Well may their poet say 

"And I, for one, would much rather, 
Could I merit so sweet a thing, 
Be the poet of little children 
Than the laureate of a king. 

G. P. Putnam's Sons have issued the first se 
of The Girlhood of Shakespeare's Heroines, by M 
Cowden Clarke — a book which ought to be weucl 
wherever it goes. The young can gain from it a t 
appreciation of the great master's works ; and ol 
people who have read the plays hardly can fim 
safer guide than this noted student of Shakespeart 
the delightful study of tracing the characters, wh 
after-life he describes, back to their early beginnin 
childhood. The book affords many instructive glimi 
into the life and customs of the times, and the sto 
will interest everybody. 




(Arranged for Parlor Representation as a Ballad with Living Pictures.) 

'. well-known story nf " Ginevra," as told in Rogers' poem of 
f," and in the ballad of " The Mistletoe Bough," is very suit- 
>r parlor representation, especially during the Christmas holi- 
To give it with the best effect, a temporary stage and drop- 
l are needed ; better still if the curtain be hung at the wide 
ig between two rooms. As an expedient, two large clothes- 
draped and stood so as to form the back and sides of the stage 
/ N , answer the purpose admirably. The flooring of 

Lge should, if practicable, be raised about fourteen inches. A 
Dine frame covered with gilt or " black walnut" paper, if placed 
:o the stage so as to form a picture-frame to each scene, will add 
nuch to the illusion; and the .effect will be still finer if a very 
lack gauze or tarletan be stretched across the back of the frame 
he entire opening. But both the frame and gauze may be dis- 
i with if they involve too much painstaking. In any case, a 
j curtain can be hung on a wire stretched across the front, and s>> 
;ed as to be drawn back, when necessary, by persons concealed at 
i'iideof the screen. A space can be left in the rear, between the 
;othes- horses, where the actors, by parting the draperies, may go 
I out. Somebody behind the screen recites or sings the ballad, 
at proper intervals is illustrated by tableaux vivants. Every- 
, must be arranged in advance, and the actors dressed ready to 
it. A large wooden chest should be at hand. It may stand in 
ar of the stage in the first scene, concealed by gay draperies or 
coding guests. A capital chest may be made of large sheets of 
joard sewed together and covered with oak wall-paper. Great 
ihiges and locks should be painted upon it. The lid, bent down 
d the edge, can be tied on at the back, so as to open and shut. 
mistletoe lough and holly, if necessary, can be made of green 
; or almost any green boughs with small leaves will answer the 
■' 'Se. The costumes, which in detail may be left to the taste of the 
Triers, should have an old-time effect and be in harmony with each 
The chief requirements are powdered heads, knee-breeches, 
reat shoe-buckles for the gentlemen ; high-heeled and rosetted 
:rs, farthingales, trains, puffed, curled and powdered heads, with 
rs, wreaths and showy jewelry for the ladies. Twenty-five cents' 
j 1 of tinsel paper, crinkled and creased, will greatly assist in the 
ry and shoe-buckle effects, when better things are not at hand. 
thintz curtains for the guests, and muslin or lace curtains for the 
I ., will make capital trains and mantles ; white wool-wadding and 
■-hair will serve for the ladies' and gentlemen's wigs, when pow- 
". not used, and knee-breeches may be easily produced by cutting 
ottoms off of old trousers, lapping them tightly at the knee, and. 

- :aling the lap by a rosette. Two pers< ms may be required to repre- 

- Lovel — one as a young, the other as an old man. For the latter 
-a long white beard may be made of goats-hair fringe or white 
I wadding. A few charcoal shadows about the face (studied from 
( e) will produce the look of old age. In the last scene, the wed- 

guests, with a few slight changes of enstume, and with charcoal 
aws on some of the faces, will serve as the old man's friends. 
Iren can personate all the characters as easily as grown persons. 
; spinning-wheel and a few old-style pieces of furniture wilt be 
.1 useful. 

ry pleasing results, however, can be secured with far less prep- 
Dn than we have suggested. The main thing is to try for har- 
.ous effects of color and grouping, and the proper lighting up of 
ableaux. All the lights should be in front of the performers, and 
en from the spectators. If the scenes are carefully rehearsed, 
: will be no difficulty in arranging each tableau silently and 
ly in its proper succession. Actual experiment will be the best 
e in deciding at which points the curtain is to be raised and 
,red When practicable, the singing or reciting of each stanza 
ild accompany its tableau to the fall of the curtain, and the 
: ; cal accompaniment can run on between the stanzas during the 

time allowed for arranging each scene. 

Tableau I. 

The mistletoe hung in the castle hail, 
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall ; 
And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, 
And keeping their Christmas holiday. 
The baron beheld with a father's pride 
His beautiful daughter, young Lovel's bride, 
While she with her bright eyes seemed to be 
The star of that goodly company. 

Oh ! the mistletoe bough ! 

Oh ! the mistletoe bough ! 

r ableau. Scene. — The castle hall. The happy old 
on and baroness are seated in state ; the bride and 

groom, with the wedding guests, may be represented as 
dancing, or in the act of playing some merry game. 

Tableau II. 

■• I 'in weary of dancing now,' 1 she cried ; 

• v Here tarry a moment — I '11 hide, I '11 hide ! 
And Lovel be sure thou 'rt the first to trace 
The clue to my secret lurking-place. " 
Away she ran, and her friends began 
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan ; 
And young Lovel cried, "Oh, where dost thou hide? 
I 'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride." 
Oh ! the mistletoe, &C, &C. 

Tableau. Curtain rises at "Away she ran." Scene. 
— A dim old garret. When tuore are no painted scenes, 
this effect is produced by lowering i!:e lights and display- 
ing dimly a few old chairs, garments, and stray articles, 
crowded together at one side ; while at the other, nearer 
to the center, stands the large open chest. The floor 
should be of dark boards or covered with some dull 
material. Ginevra, drawing her wedding drapery 
around her, and looking merrily back, is about step- 
ping into the chest. The light should be arranged so- 
as to fall only upon the form of Ginevra. 

Tableau III. 

They sought her that night, and they sought her next day, 
And they sought her in vain when a week pass'd away ; 
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot, 
Young Lovel sought wildly, but found her not. 
And years flew by, and their grief at last 
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past ; 
And when Lovel appeared, the children cried : 
*• See ! the old man weeps for his fairy bride ! " 
Oh! the mistletoe, &c, Sec. 

Pantomime. Curtain rises at "And years few dy. }T 
An out-of-door scene. (If the trunk and various articles 
are pushed back and covered with green baize, and 
groups of children, with hats on, are arranged to partially 
conceal the background, a painted scene can be dis- 
pensed with.) Lovel, now an old man with long white 
beard, with cocked hat, and big cane, is seen walking 
slowly across the stage from L. His head is bowed and 
his manner very sad. The children, looking pityingly at 
him, whisper together, and, finally, two or three steal up 
to him, as if to attract his attention, as the curtain falls. 

Tableau IV. 

At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid, 
Was found in the castle — they raised the lid. 
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there, 
In the bridal wreath of the lady fair ! 
Oh ! sad was her fate ! in sportive jest 
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest. 
It closed with a spring, and her bridal bloom 
Lay withering there in a living tomb ! 
Oh ! the mistletoe, &c, &c. 

Tableau. Curtain rises at " Sad was her fate ." Scene. 
— The garret as before. Lovel, the old man, stands near 
the open chest, grief-stricken, with a necklace in his 
hand. A group of friends stand by in amazement and 
pity. One young girl has her arm on Lovel's shoulder, 
as if to gently draw him away. (Curtain falls while 
the nntsic is playing.) 





Ding-dong ! dincr-dono- ! dinsj ! 

C5 c> o 

The bell-ring-ers in the pict-ure are re-al cats. Their names are Jet 
Blanche, Tom, Mop and Tib. Jet is all black ; Blanche is white as snow 
Tom stands in the mid-die ; Mop is next ; and Tib, who has the small-es 
bell, has to reach high-est to ring it. 

Like the Bright-on cats of which we once told you, these pus-sies have 


en trained to do won-der-ful tricks. They can stand up and beg like 
gs ; they can lie down and play that they are fast a-sleep ; they can 
itrch in a row like sol-diers ; more than all, they can ring the bells in 
od time, so soft-ly and sweet-ly that the music is pret-ty e-nough for 
irist-mas chimes. 

Mr. Bow-en tells a-bout them in a Lon-don book called " The Chil- 
e's Friend." He says the mas-ter who taught them to ring the bells 
is al-ways ver-y kind and gen-tle. They knew that he loved them, and 
it when-ev-er they tried to learn their les-son well, he would give them 
nice meal of fish. 

Cats like fish as well as you like can-dy, — bet-ter than you like a can-dy 
I ; so you see they must have felt, when they gave the ropes a good 
ill, that, some-how, they were ring-ing their own din-ner-bell. At first 
1 pus-sies found it ver-y hard to catch hold of the bell-rope ; but when 
Wf mas-ter put soft bunch-es of wool up-on the cord, so that the pus-sies 
jld fast-en their sharp lit-tle claws in-to it, they took hold with a good 

" Ding-dong ! Thank you, Mas-ter," they seemed to say. " This is 
me-thing like ! " 

Some-times the pus-sies would not a-gree ver-y well. Tib would get 
ed of her short rope, and try to get hold of Jet's. Then Blanche and 
>m would join in the fight ; the ropes would get twisted ; all the bells 
mid ring out of tune, and Mop would " me-ouw " with all her might 
it the dread- ful noise would soon bring them to their senses ; and the 
)-ment they were good, the sweet mu-sic would come a-gain and make 
am hap-py. 

When the pus-sies were not do-ing their fun-ny tricks, they would walk 
oout just like any oth-er cats, or lie down on the rug and doze. Some- 
les, in their sleep, they would wave their tails slow-ly, and then their 
is-ter would say : 

" Bless 'em ! They are dream-ing of the bells." 

If he called to them, they would spring to his side and rub their cool 
ses a-gainst his hand, or, jump-ing up-on his knee, they would look 

in-to his face, as if to say : 

" Good mas-ter ! you look tired. Poor dear ! you are on-ly a man. 
it you may de-pend up-on our help. We know ver-y well that if it 
':re not for us cats there would be no bells rung in the world." 

The mas-ter would smile at this, and stroke them fond-ly ; then the 

2-light would play a-bout their forms as, one by one, they would set-tie 

ft-ly up-on the rug for an-oth-er nap. 
Vol. II.— 13. 

i 9 4 




A MERRY Christmas and a glad New Year to 
you, my darlings ! And may nothing check your 
daily growth in kindness, strength and love, in all 
sweet and holy ways throughout this new year 1875! 

Now to business. Here, to begin with, is 


North Pole, December 20th, 1874. 

To Jack-in-the-Pulpit : Expect me very soon. Important busi- 
ness. If any of your young breezes wish to have their own way, 
send them here; no rival societies. Have only one opposition firm. 
A. Borealis & Co. Will outdo them yet They only care for brilliant 
display, while I believe in trumpeting. They are as silent as the ice 

Any foolish young greens trying to grow in your vicinity? I'll 
soon stop that Business is not at all dull. There is much work to 
be done, and sending out of iceberg agents. Magnificent display of 
ice in our warerooms. Unequaled this side the equator. 

I must get away for a tour among your pines ; their backs need 
bending a trifle. Will give you a call if you are "at home." — Yours, 

N. W. Wind. 


THEY have sweet Christmas music in Norway — 
Norway, that far-off country, with the steel-blue 
sky and frozen sea. It is a song in the air. The 
simple peasants make the birds that inhabit those 
rude coasts and icy valleys so very happy on this 
one day of the year that they sing of their own ac- 
cord a glad carol on Christmas morning, and all 
the people come out of their houses and rejoice to 
hear it. 

On Christmas Eve, after the birds have sought 
shelter from the north wind, and the still night is 
bright with stars, the good people bring from their 
store-houses sheaves of corn and wheat, and, tying 
them to slender poles, raise them from every spire, 
barn, gate-post and gable. Then when, after the 
long night, the Christmas sun arises, crowning the 
mountains with splendor, every spire and gable 
bursts into sudden song. 

The children run out to hear the old church- 
spire singing ; the older people follow ; the air is 

filled with the flutter of wings and alive with carol' 
of gladness. The song of the birds fills every vil- 
lage with happiness, and to this living, gratent 
anthem the people respond in their hearts, " Glorj 
to God in the highest ; on earth peace ; good-wil 
to men." 


A LADY and gentleman were crossing our meado» 
one cloudy day, when suddenly it began to rain. 

"Wont you be kind enough to hoist my urn 
brella ? " said the lady. 

" Certainly," said the gentleman. 

I was astonished at this, for if "wont" mean I 
anything at all it means will not; and therefore 1 
according to my translation, the gentleman reall j 
had told the lady that certainly he would not I |tl 
kind enough to hoist her umbrella / 

But no. Even while he spoke he opened that usejs 
ful article and held it gracefully over his companior i 

" Thank you ! " said she earnestly. 

" Not at all," said he still more earnestly. An | 
on they went. 

"Why, the fellow flatly contradicted the lady, 
said I to myself. " How outrageous ! " 

But no, again, for they were on the best of term; t 
and the lady smiled sweetly at his words. 

Yet the birds tell me that this sort of talk is quit ji 
usual among genteel human beings. 

> I 





You remember, my dears, how, last spring, tt 
bonny blue Scotch Heather sent a letter throug ' 
your Jack to our own Trailing Arbutus. Wei '. 
Arbutus has sent an answer to that letter, and 
take this way of forwarding it to Scotland. S' 
NICHOLAS goes there regularly every month, I 
happy to say. It 's a pretty compliment to tl 
Heather for the answer to be in Scotch, is n't il 
By the way, I 'm quite sure, from what T. A. sa; 
in a message to me, that you need n't mind readir 
the letter, though it 's not worth while to mentic 
its contents out of the family. 

New England, Autumn of 1874. 

Dear Cape Heath : Ye bonny purple blooms, a' oor herts g 
out in answer to yer frien'ly letter, an' since a' oor simmer wark 
done — ilka wee bud tucked tenderly awa', an' a' oor roots taught hi 
to tak' firm hold o' Mither Earth's warm han's — we ha'e the time 
sen' ye greetin' before the winter snaws mak' oor beds. 

Oor winsome wee daughters will na open their een afore Ms 
an' lest ye should grow tired waitin', we, their carefu' mithers, si 
ye a letter. We learned yer ain sweet mither-tongue lang years aj 
frae Highland lads an' lassies wha come here to live. Indeed 
think a' flooers maun use the sweet soundin' words, for they : 
purer and easier-like for flower-lips to utter than ony ither. 

Of course, Sir Heather, ye never meant yer letter to be a luve-lett 
sae ye will be as glad to hae it answered by Mistress Arbutus as 
her lassies ; besides, ye will ken yersel that nae discreet lass wad 
writin' to lads far ower the sea. 

An' noo we maun tell ye a' about oor life an' wark in this count 
A' simmer we are busy, as we told ye, wi' oor baimies, an' ilka I 
the trees aboon us — wha seem to ha'e kind herts — throw down th 
wee bit plaids o' green an' gold an' scarlet to cover us warmly fj 
auld Winter's cruel winds. Ye may be sure we gi'e them kin'ly fl 

It is wonnerfu' — the great hert o' kin'ness which lies under 
things, like a wheel aye tumin' an' tumin', an' at ilka turn throw 
up glimmerin' bits o' spray, white an pure, an' destined to mi 
some droopin' thing. Sae it seems oor seasons are turnin' round 
aye, and forever tossin' some treasure to ilka created thing. Ye < 
a maist see the hert-beats in streams wha run down the bumies, a 
in the gende clouds wha wander owerhead. 



mietimes the braw auld Sun himsel' seems but a smile o' kin'ness, 
ift at evenin' time the moon an' stars are smilin' too. We can 
offer sma' payment by pourin' out oor sweetness an' showin' oor 
r, which we maun mak' as rich an' delicate as possible, an' sae 
'ire busy frae year's end to year's end weavin' brightness an' dis- 
' sweet incense. We a'maist envy the birdies their thankfu' 
es. The marvel o' the warld, as made known to nower-herts, is 
deep, aye lastin' luve which has provided a' things needfu' for 
livin' creature. 

e shake yer han's, dear Heather, an' we wish for ye a' noble things 
hich yer life is capable. May a' yer bloomings content y5! 
ye will convey oor warmest hive to ilka spray o' heather in auld 
.land, an' to a' growin' in Ireland an' on rugged German mount- 
as weel, ye will confer a favor upon — Your lovin' frien's, 

The Whoce Clan o' Trailing Arbutus. 



i SAW an oyster once — about as flabby and limp 
fellow as one could wish to meet. To be sure he 
'i just been turned out of house and home, poor 
ng, and the spirit was pretty well out of him ! 
t that 's nothing here nor there. I 'm told that 
iters often are found with tiny crabs in their 
<ases. How can this be ? and how does the case 
jad? Does the crab go in to catch the oyster, 
does the oyster catch the crab ? Is it a peculiar 
id of crab warranted never to grow big, or, if 
:, what happens ? That is to say, if it 's only a 
3y crab of the ordinary sort, what becomes of 
it oyster when the crab grows up ? Which en- 
'ripasses the other ? 

[ 'm a stay-at-home body, so I hope you children 
1 please find out all you can on this crab-and- 
3ter business, and let your Jack know the facts 
the case. 


YOU 'VE all read "Grimm's Fairy Tales," or, if 
.t, you '11 be pretty sure to read them before you 
,: much older. They are very apt to be found 
Christmas stockings, and being the production 
two German brothers, who know well how to de- 

F;ht young folk, they are always very welcome. 
ck heard the pretty schoolma'am one day repeat 
her out-door class a pretty story that old Jacob 
rimm, the brother who put these stories in a 
.iok, tells about one of his little readers. 

, He was told one fine morning that a little girl 
shed to see him in his reception-room, as she had 
mething to say to "Herr Professor." 

] Stepping down to the room, he found a little 

liss, looking very grave and very wise. 

I " Is it thou," she said, " who hast written these 

Se fairy tales ? " 

' " Yes, my dear ; my brother and I have written 


d " Then the tale of the clever little tailor is thine ; 
id it says at the end that he who will not believe 

jimust pay a thaler (a German dollar)." 

s " Yes, I have written that too." 

' " Well, sir, I do not believe it." 

• " Ah ! " 

: " Here, sir, is a quarter of a thaler. It is all I 

t ive now, but I will call and leave the rest at some 
:her time." 

, The kind old man laughed, and declined the 

uarter-thaler. He offered, however, to see the 

'onest little one home, and I have no doubt that 
te two became in time the best of friends. 

And now since it 's holiday times, and we are 
speaking of the great tellers of fairy tales, you shall 
hear about 


You have read about it, perhaps ? But did you 
ever know that that " ugly little duck" was dear 
old Hans Andersen himself? 

Well, it was. I have just heard all about it. 

He was born in a poor little hut, on the wind- 
swept Island of Odense, one of the possessions of 
Denmark. He was a neglected child ; his father 
made shoes, and could not attend to him ; his 
mother left him to follow his own will, and the 
little children laughed at him, and said that he was 
a fool, "just like his grandfather." 

Hans' only comfort was to build castles in the 
air. He fancied he was a prince, who had been 
changed at his birth, and that the angels came and 
talked with him in the garden. He was almost, 
but not quite, right, and yet most people in his 
neighborhood agreed with the children that he was 
a " fool, just like his grandfather." 

One day he said : 

" Mother, I am going to Copenhagen, and shall 
become famous. "- 

" But, Hans, what will you do ? " 

" Suffer adversity till I become famous." And 
the " ugly little duck" waddled away to the bleak 
open sea, and when he came back he was the 
famous Hans Christian Andersen ! He was indeed 
born a prince, and good angels talked with him. 

You must read the " ugly duck " again. 


HOW 's this, my children ? I 've always had an 
idea that if ever there was a new country it was 
Colorado, here in America , and now, if they 're 
not finding antiquities in it, — the remains of good 
two-story stone houses, away down in its deep 
ravines ; not one house, but groups of houses, 
towers and temples, and other signs that there 
were civilized settlements there long before the 
days of Indians and wigwams ! I must see the 
birds about it. Meantime, you may ask your 
fathers and mothers, who read the newspapers, for 
further particulars. This is a great country, my 
dears, and the half has not yet been told. It 's 
Jack's opinion that, as a country, America is young- 
looking for her age. 


LEARN these lines, my boys and girls, on New 
Year's Day, and carry them with you all the rest 
of your lives. They are very, very old, but not so 
old as the truth they tell : 

"Devoutly look, and naught 

But wonders shall pass by thee ; 
Devoutly read, and then 

All books shall edify thee ; 
Devoudy speak, and men 

Devoudy listen to thee ; 
Devoudy act, and then 

The strength of God acts through thee." 




Here come some verses from E. S. F., floating so lightly and 
brightly toward the Letter-Box that we must not turn them away. 


I blew bubbles once for Kitty. 

As they sailed about, 
Kitty cried, " They are so pretty ! 

Don't let them go out ! " 

Then I tossed them hither, yonder, 

Low, high, every way ; 
Kitty's eyes grew wide with wonder : 

" Mamma, make them stay ! " 

" Let me catch one ! " she entreated, 

As they flitted past; 
" Let me have one ! " she repeated ; 
" I will hold it fast! " 

So I tossed a bubble at her ; 

Light it touched her hands. 
Broke, and left a soapy splatter; 

All abashed she stands. 

Said I, " What is it that troubles 

Mamma's darling pet ? " 
Cried she, " Wish you 'd zvipe these bubbles, 

So they ivont be ivet / " 

William B. S. — If you send your monthly copies ol the first 
volume of St. Nicholas — all in good order — to Scribner & Co., 654 
Broadway, N. Y., and send also one dollar to pay for binding, you 
will receive, by express or mail, the beautiful bound volume for 1874. 
You must pay the express charges on the numbers you send, and on 
the volume when you receive it ; or, if you wish the volume sent by 
mail, you must send thirty-two cents to pay postage on it 

Hosts of our boys and girls will be glad to know that Mr. Stock- 
ton's delightful story, "What Might Have Been Expected," 
with all its pictures, has just been published in book form by Dodd & 
Mead, of New York, and that it already has had a very large sale. 
We are proud to think that this noble story, with its wealth of inci- 
dent and pure, true spirit, entered the world through the pages of 
St. Nicholas ; and we are sure it will be good news to you all that 
Mr. Stockton has promised to write as much as he _can for this 
magazine during the coming year. 

. Turtle-Cloves.— Alice Donlevy writes: 

"Turtle-cloves are funny little fellows that may be placed with 
fine effect on Christmas sugar-cakes, or set down beside each plate at 
the Christmas dinner. And this is the way to make them . Take for 
each turtle-clove a large, plump raisin and six cloves. Push a clove 

he starts a fresh line, such as, "The binder /olds." No. 4 follow 
with "The sculptor wolds,'" or "The lawyer scolds," or whateve 
fitting fee may occur to him, and so the game goes on. Anyon * 
failing to give a rhyme, or, if the latest couplet is complete, a &esl 
line, when his or her turn comes, must pay a forfeit. It is considered 
a good point to keep up the same rhyme as long as possible, and tr * 
the effort to do this the comical or extravagant rhymes suggested wD 
make a good deal of fun. 

"It is surprising," says J. S. S., "how easy the game is wha 
once it is fairly started. Fitting rhymes seem to spring naturall' t 
from the trades and professions : The miller grinds, the gleane 
binds, the hunter Jinds ; the barber shaves, the doctor saves, tin 
beggar craves / the cobbler mends, the broker lends; the surged "*" 
hurts ; the fireman squirts ; and so on. 

John Scott, R. L. M. and " Cato " ask for a " good, shorts] 
ing-piece." Try "Conductor Bradley," by John Greenleaf Whittier 
You will find it in his latest book, Hazel Blossoms. 

Willie and Charlie, who send a double letter from Brimn, Mo 
ravia, and who "find the monthly visits of St. Nicholas a g 
compensation for being so far from home," write : 

"A fortnight before Christmas, one sees in the windows here, an( 
also being carefully carried in the streets, a curious figure of an ok 
man in long, flowing robes, who looks kindly at the children. He ii 
supposed to be St Nicholas, a friend of all good young folks, anc 
well supplied with candies for their benefit; but following closelybe- 
hind him is a gloomy figure in black, bearing a bundle of sticks witl 
which to flog the bad boys and girls; and naughty children are quitt 
sure that he will find them out All through the country St. Nicholas 
Day is observed religiously, and great preparations are made for it: 

We find that our article in the October number, describing the ship- 
ment of ice from Boston to India, did not state the matter altogetha 
correctly. Great quantities of ice are sent from Boston to India, bul 
it is not cut on Lake Ontario, but from the ponds around Boston. 
We here give a short account, kindly sent us by a Boston ice-merchantj 
of the manner in which the ice is obtained from these ponds : 

" The ponds from which the ice is cut lie within twenty-five miles 
of the city. The process of cutting may be briefly described. When 
clear ice of sufficient depth — say fnurteen inches — is formed, all snow- 
ice, which is opaque and of inferior value, with what snow there may 
be upon the ice, is removed by scrapers drawn by horses. The surface 
which is to be cut is then marked out by cutting long grooves with 
a " hand-plow." A horse-plow follows, cutting the grooves deepen 
and at the same time, by a guide-marker, marking a second line 
parallel to the first, and twenty-two inches from it This is in turn 
deepened, and a third groove cut, until the entire field is marked out 
into twenty-two inch squares. Cutters with longer and stronger teeth, 
and finally saws, cut the ice into rafts. It is then ready to be housed. 
The ice nearest the houses being taken out first, an open space is 1 
formed over which the rest is floated, and thus through channels an<f 
over the miniature ponds the blocks and rafts are conducted to eleva- 
tors of various kinds, which carry them up to the doors, through which 
they are pushed into the ice-house until the last is stored." 

From these houses the ice is taken to the ships at the wharves, and' 
in them carried to India, where, as the writer says, it " sends a chill of 
gratitude through the community." 

in the end of the raisin until but little more than the bud is seen ; this 
forms the head of this turtle-like object Two cloves on each side 
form the feet. For the tail, fasten the bud part of the clove in the 
under side of the raisin, letting only the tapering end of the clove be 

A New Game. — J. S. S. offers an original fireside game to the 
readers of St. Nicholas. He calls it " Rhymes and Trades." Any 
number may play. No. 1 starts a line, which he says aloud, such as 
"The mason builds." No. 2 must rhyme it with a similar remark 
concerning some other tradesman: for instance, "The gilder gilds." 
No. 3 in turn must give a new trade and rhyme if he can. If not, 

Jessie F. D. — The sketch you send us is taken from an old print, 
a copy of which is given here for the benefit of all who are interested 
in the good saint after whom this magazine is named. 

St Nicholas lived over 1400 years ago in the city of Patara, in 
Asia Minor. He is said to have been from the first a wonderfully 
saintly child, and when he became a man, though he was but a 
simple citizen, he rose, through his active piety, to be Bishop of 
Myra. Wonderful stories are related of his good deeds, and some of 
them are commemorated to this day in the various churches of 
Europe. Over the altar in the Church of St. Nicholas at Ghent, is a 
large painting of the very scene shown in this old wood-engraving. 



althy gentleman in Asia, the story runs, sent his two sons to 

to be educated. He charged the boys at parting to stop at 

>n their way and pay their respects to his reverence, the 

The boys readied the city at night, and took lodgings in an 

aiding to make the promised call in the morning. 

the landlurd was a very wicked man, and when he saw the 

;h store of baggage he resolved to rob and murder them. So 

.ie poor boys were asleep, he crept up to their room and dis- 

) them, and, to conceal his terrible deed, he cut up their bodies 

:ked them in a pickling-tub with some pork, intending to sell 

>le to some ship in the Adriatic. 

good St. Nicholas that night saw it all in a dream, and in the 
I he put on his pontifical robes {for he was now an arch- 
, and, with his crozier in his hand, went in holy indignation 

^landlord was greatly frightened when he saw the archbishop, 
being accused, fell upon his knees and confessed his crime, 
fiicholas next went to the tub in all his pontificals, and he passed 
ids over the boys, who at once hopped up out of the pickled 
ive and whole. The happy fellows began to sing praises to 

.cholas, but he, good soul, would not listen to it. He told them 
■ship none but God. The boys, at once recovering their posses- 
went on their way rejoicing, and St. Nicholas was regarded as 

fecial protector of boys and students from that hour. 
3t of the old pictures represent three boys in the pickling-tub, 

^ th uplifted hands, praising good St. Nicholas. We suspect that 
boys in the tub, instead of two, better suited the fancy of the 
tists. It did not make a great deal of difference^in point of fact, 
certainly made a better picture. 
!ut how came St. Nicholas to be the patron of Christmas gifts 

,:ie particular saint of the Christmas holidays ? " 

r er St. Nicholas was made archbishop at Myra, he became very 
and because he despised money for his own sake, he spent a 
portion of his time in giving away his money to others, and in 

ja way that none should know from whom it came. It chanced 
here was a very poor nobleman in Myra, who had three lovely 
iters. Knowing that they could have no marriage portion, St. 
:>las, considerate soul, felt pity for them, and one moonlight 

, he took a purse, round as a ball with gold, and, throwing it into 

.pen window at the feet of the eldest daughter, he hid himself 
view. The eldest daughter could now marry. What a good 

saint St. Nicholas was, and what a pity he died so long ago ! After 
awhile, the Saint visited the nobleman's premises again, and did 
the same mysterious kindness to the second daughter. The noble- 
man now began to keep watch at night, in order to discover whence 
his sudden good fortune came. As good St. Nicholas was about to 
throw another rounded purse at the feet of the third daughter, he was 
discovered by the grateful father, who threw himself at his feet, say- 
ing: " O St. Nicholas, servant of God, why seek to hide thyself? " 

St Nicholas made the nobleman promise never to tell the discovery 
he had made ; but the secret escaped in some unaccountable way ; 
and after St. Nicholas died, the nuns of the convents in the East used 
to imitate him on certain holidays in making secret gifts to their 
friends. They used to put silk stockings at the door of the abbess at 
night, and label them with a paper invoking the liberal aid of good 
St. Nicholas. In the morning the stocking would be found full of 

In time, as you know, children began to imitate this custom, 
especially at Christmas. 

St. Nicholas used annually to be honored in the old English 
churches by the election, of a boy-bishop, whom the whole church 
were accustomed to obey for a short time, because St. Nicholas was 
the patron of boys. He is still honored with a grand festival at Bari 
on the Adriatic, is the patron saint of Russia, and of the mariners 
on the great winter seas, and his name is bome by the Russian czars. 
He also is the patron saint of New York city, which, you know, was 
settled by the Dutch, and of all saints he is most reverenced in Hol- 
land. But there the young folks do him honor on St. Nicholas day, 
which comes on the 6th of November, keeping it very much as we 
do the Christmas holidays. 

Ella and Edward C. — Osgood & Co., of Boston, are about to 
publish a little play, written by Mrs. Geo. L. Chaney, from the 
"William-Henry" books, by Mrs. Abby Morton Diaz, whose stories 

in the St. Nicholas have delighted you so much. The play prob- 
ably will be just the thing you need for parlor representation, and, if 
we are rightly informed, it will be out very soon. 

Jane H. (and others). — In making up your club for a premium, 
the names of old subscribers will count the same as new ones. 

Dear Boys and Girls : Please, can any one tell me 
the following lines : 

"'Tis midnight; and the setting sun 
Rises in the far glorious West; 
The rapid rivers slowly run, 

The frog is on his downy nest ; 
The pensive goat and sportive cow, 
Hilarious hop from bough to bough?" 

They have amused me ever since I can remember. 

'ho wrote 

Alice M. W. 

Jclia T. F., of California, sends the following to the Letter-Box. 
It was circulated last Christmas among the boys and girls at a San 
Francisco Sunday-school, and was written, she believes, by the 
teacher. She thinks it will be new, as well as useful, to hundreds of 
her St, Nicholas friends : 

The Books of the New Testament. 

Matthew and Mark and Luke and John the Holy Gospels wrote, 

The Saviour's life and death they tell, and all that they denote; 

Acts proves how God the Apostles owned with signs in every place, 

St. Paul in Romans teaches us bow man is saved by grace; 

The Apostle in Corinthians instructs, exhorts, reproves, 

Galatians shows that faith in Christ alone the Father loves ; 

Ephesians and Philifpians tell what Christians ought to be, 

Colossians bids us live to God, and for eternity ; 

In Thessalonians we are taught the Lord will come from Heaven, 

In Timothy and Titus a bishop's rule is gi\en; 

Philemon marks a Christian's love, which only Christians know, 

Hebrews reveals the Gospel prefigured by the law; 

James teaches, without holiness faith is but vain and dead, 

St,. Peter points the narrow way in which the saints are led ; 

John, in his three Epistles, on love delights to dwell, 

St. Jude gives awful warnings of judgment, wrath and hell ; 

The Revelation prophesies of that tremendous day 

When Christ, and Chnst alone, shall be the trembling sinner's stay. 




Mr. Editor: Papa helped me to find out about "the Torricellian 
tube" mentioned by Mr. Jack-in-the-Pulpit. It's a barometer. 
Papa showed me the quotation the pretty schoolma'am used. It was 
from some verses written by the Rev. Gilbert White in his book about 
the " Natural History of Selborne." It's a little piece with a great 
long name. Eddie Black. 

Dear Editor: Please tell Jack-in-the-Pulpit that "the Torri- 
cellian tube" is named after the inventor, Torricelli, an Italian 
philosopher and mathematician, who discovered the principle on 
which the barometer is constructed. " Jicks." 

Will the Editors of the St. Nicholas please inform me by what 
author, and from what poem, the line " Piping on hollow reeds to his 
spent sheep " is taken ? And the origin of the quotation, " The brook 
that brawls along the wood ? " F. O. M. 

The second quotation you mention is from Shakespeare's "As You 
Like It,' : Act II., Scene i. It is part of a beautiful speech by one of 
the lords resident with the banished duke in the forest of Arden, and 
has reference to the " melancholy Jaques," who, he says : 

" lay along 

Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 

Upon the brook that brawls along this wood." t 

You do not quote it exacdy, and this makes us think that perhaps 
your first quotation is hardly accurate. We know of no passage ap- 
proaching it more nearly than one in the first stanza of Spenser's 
"Shepherd's Calendar." 

Clara Gilbert, Fannie Prouty, Lizzie Welch, Mary Welch, I 
Hackett, Ida Spence, Mary Bardwell., Lucinda Bardwell, I 
Bard well, Lillie Meramvill, and Lucy Williams. 

The following new names of Bird-defenders have also been rea 
since our last issue: May Ogden, John F. Ogden, Fannie M. i 
wold, Florence Peltier, Anna M. Glover, Maggie Derrick, Jii 
H. Derrick, Hattie Carman, Charlie Carman, Johnnie Can 
Jennie Carman, Lizzie Park, Alice I. Paine, Katie R. Paine, En 
Paine, Mary C. Paine, Fannie D. Murden, Maude Cheney, , 
Angell, Eva Dodds, Bennie Stockdale, Willie C. N. Bond, Ai 
H. Clarke, Arthur L. Gilman, William F. Darrah, Rufus E. Da 
Robert Staigg, Chas. T. Griffith, B. C. Weaver, Bessie Seven 
Mary Severance, John Severance, Allen Severance, Annie Sever, 
Julia Severance, Bertha Hunt, Grace Murray, Fannie Laurie, 
F. Hays, Herbert Shaw Forman, Lulu F. Potter, Tony Foot,' 
Thomas P.. Sanborn. 

Fayette, Howard Co., Mo., Oct 14, 18; 
Messrs. Scribner & Co., New York. 

Gentlemen : I enclose you $3.00 for St. Nicholas for 1875. 
little son and daughter have made the money themselves. I li< 
a farm ; and Ethelbert plowed one day instead of going to the cj 
so as to save his show-money to help pay for your magazine. So 
can see that it is highly appreciated. —Yours, &c, Thomas 1 



: .: 

I ll 


Grace Ethel. — We cannot put you down as a Bird-defender, as 
you do not send your full name. 

Lucv Williams sends the following list of Bird-defenders : Jessie 
Cook, Bessie Gilbert, Maggie Gilbert, Sadie Gilbert, Josie Gilbert, 

Minnie Thomas sends a batch of riddles which she " found 
old book, and thought might be new to many readers." We sel 

" What is that which, by losing one eye, has only a nose 
Ans. — A noise." 

" My first some men will often take 
Entirely for my second's sake ; 
But very few indeed there are 
Who both together well can bear. 
Ans. — Misfortune." 

" In my first my second sat; my third and fourth I ate. At 



~ : 
I : 




c, - •■"*. '-'■. \ 


,'-'' f fJS- 1 













Our Christmas would certainly be incomplete 
Without a plum-pudding, rich, juicy and sweet ; 
The recipe you will demand, I dare say — 
I '11 give it at once in a fanciful way : 

Take a thousand and one, in proportions to sf 1 - 1 
And sprinkle it carefully over the fruit ; 
Now a daisy or rose, and (3) one hundred l 

The east and the west winds in conflict abovi 
A Seneca chief taking supper at e'en, 
Two tools and some ice, with a small pea betwe kt 
And now from Missouri get two pretty girls, 
Bright, sparkling and lively, blue eyes and 

curls ; 
A frank kind of fruit with the sound of a bell ii 
And all these ingredients together mix well 
Now please add two verbs of an opposite meani iin 
(10) What the writer of this did at supper this event 
Add milk, eggs and raisins, stir well, and I w| 5 
You '11 have a plum-pudding that 's fit for a que iL 


I AM composed of thirty-eight letters : My 30, 4, -: 
5, 24, 38 is a city in the United States. My I, 22 
si domestic animal. My 6, 34, 19, 13 is the name Ma 
month. My 14, 17, 31 is an insect. My 6, 7, 28, 33, 

are employed in court. My 29, iS, 20, 12, 5 is on> ( 
the five senses. My 23, 36, 28, 25, 32, 27, 18, 20, 
II is a number. My 26, 33, 35, 29, 10 is a useful 1 
mal. My 30, 2, 37 is a weapon used by the Indit L 
My 15, 3, 8, 34, 16 is to endow. My whole is an 
saying. C. A. ! 




j 1. The subject of your thoughts I tell. 

' 2. A word that speaks a long farewell. 

• 3. A native of a distant land. 

4. I mean, to seize with sudden hand. 

5. And I, to take with trust the true. 
] 6. In Italy, my home, I grew. 

7. Me, before all, should men pursue. 

Never found on land or sea ; 
But in mid-air look for me. 

Piercing darkness, golden bright. 
Giving life, and shedding light. 


Fill the first blank with a certain word ; the second, 
by the same word minus its first letter ; the third, by 
original word minus first two letters ; and in like man- 
ner the lines of the second stanza : 

The. princess who once tried to 

Her fair hand wounded with the 

A magic sleep, she then fell 

And thus for years she lay; 


Until, to break the slumber 

Ere her sweet soul by it were 

A noble knight, by true love 

Kissed all the spell away. 




nd of tumor or 
ng. 3. To repulse 
ive back. 4. A 

nickname. 5- A 

VERSED : I. A let- 
2. Novel or fresh, 
iufferer often men- 
1 in Scripture. 4. 
reat used for shel- 

concealment. 5. 


SE the name of a 
1 animal, insert a 
>nant, and find the 
of a celebrated t 
itain ; then insert 
,?el, and find a con- 
in. R. G. 



A famous water- 
flace. 2. A fresh- 
lake in Central 
la that Livingstone 

tigated. 3. One 
ohe oldest cities 
isia. 4. A large 

d in the Northern 

>.n, famous for its 
mg springs and sub- 

nean fires. 5- An 

re that has four 

'.red millions of in- 

tants, and the oldest 
. rnment now in ex- 

,ce. 6. A range of 

ntains whose tops 
; covered with per- 

al snow, and the 

itry all around cov- 

with perpetual verdure. 7. A river and gulf of 

iria. 8. A frozen northern country. 9. A land you 

I love. 10. The country where Scott and Burns were 

1. The initials of the above will give the name of 

whom we hope you are glad to see. ■ F. R. F. 


(Read the inscription on the sign.) 



I. A vowel. 2. The organ of hearing. 3. A wooden 
frame for holding pictures. 4. A color. 5. A conso- 
nant. IRON DUKE. 





The blanks in each sentence are to be ruled by one 
word or phrase and its transpositions : 

Once rooms, and some guests, 

who my door with pleasure. 

My was that I could at one twenty, for 

which number . Of plates I placed 

my table. 

A , which held four more, seemed a 

, relieving a fear more than I could 

seat. Each dish the different taste of guests. 

Some prefer cooked by . One guest, named 

, never ■ , but is fond of broiled . An- 
other, who ; — as a Turk, eschews . One 

dish of vegetables being passed to him, he exclaimed, 
" occasion, ever touch an ! " A gen- 
tleman named , near a dish of potatoes, 

of which he was very fond. Another moved that ( 

man who in market , classed with t 

who make their sole diet. A servant, taker 

wilh this gentleman's , placed two 

pair of china tureens ! At this I was so — 

I to smile yet, whenever I think of it, am 

fact, it all merry. 

Two gentlemen, a little from the rest — 

only, for dessert. One friend made com 

mentary of my . I should have given them 

served , but they were burned in 


My pudding of before the . 1 

one gentleman, not firm of- , called for , but 

rudely interrupted by the remark that they only tin 
men into ! 

We then for the drawing-room, and I thinli 

— — that the dinner was a success. J. P.] 


Logogriph. — Oporto — Port O ! — Port(e)— Or— O. 
Pictorial Double Acrostic — Leap-frog. 
L — ea— F 
E — xecutione — R 
A —It— O 
P _^_ G 
Anagrams. — I. — i. Shoemakers. 2. Authors. 3. Painters. 4. 
Teachers. 5. Policeman. 6. Editor. II. — 1. Anemone. 2. Tube- 
roses. 3. Dahlia. 4. Geraniums. 5. Dandelions. 6. Lilac. 7. Hya- 
cinths. 8. Verbenas. III. — 1. Currants. 2. Orange. 3. Pine- 
apples. 4. Apricots. 5. Water-melons. IV. — 1. Simultaneously. 
2. Discourteously. 3. Premeditation. 4. Foreground. 5. Loiterings. 
6. Kinswoman. 
Diamond Puzzle. — t 




Hidden Square. - 



T A S T I 

Decapitations. — 1. Cape, ape. 
Store, tore. 

2. Blot, lot. 3. Climb, limb. 4. 

Enigma. — Charlotte Cushman 

The Day in the Grove. — Cyprus (cypress) — Florence — Ji 
— James — Flattery — Virginia — Java - Orange — Sandwich — G 
Bear — Florence — Fear — Adelaide — Cologne — Good Hope — Flop 
— Virginia — Darling — James — Madeira — James — Newfoundl; 
Loyalty — Constance — Rocky — Lena — Florence — Virginia — P 
(pest) — Constance — Coral — Adelaide — Chili — Farewell — Concord 

Easy Rebuses. — 1. Prowess. 2. West Indies. 3. Belief. 

Transpositions — 1. Oracles — so clear. 2 All pearl -pars 
3. Avers — raves. 4. Felicity. — city life. 5. Aloof — a fool. 6. Oa 
— caters — recast — traces — carets. 7. Indenture — end in true. 

Square Remainders. — 

W — age — r 
S — tea— 1 

Double Cross-Word. — Rose and Pink. 

Easy Metagrams. — Cow, vow, bow, now (or how), tow, Po, 

Answers to Puzzles in November Number were received, previous to November 18th, from Constant E. Jones, L. W. J01 
D. P. L. P., Helen B. Fancharl, Charlie N. Thompson, Eugenia C Pratt, Ida H. Jenkins, Mary H. Wilson. Thornton M. Ware, Hcrl 
R. Palmer, Georgia C. Bosher, Mary H. Rochester, C. Bacheler, George F. Pease, Alexander Noyes, J. B.yan, James S. Rogers, 
Louise F. Olmstead, Ida P. Williams, Bessie H. Van Clcef, Charlie Woodbury, Sarah Havens, Carrie "Simpson, Florrie Kronau, 
Habisshory, Belle Hooper, and Thomas P. Sanborn. 

A Conundrum Picture. 

The three prizes for the best sets of answers to the sixty-three conundrums contained in this puzzle, published in the November numl 
were awarded to M. E. Walker, 20 Cottage Street, Utica, Oneida County, New York; Josie McLaughlin, Montclair, New Jerst 
and Tinty Watson, Orange, New Jersey; and a bound volume of St. Nicholas has been sent to each. 

The sets of answers received from the following named boys and girls were so admirable that the senders deserve honorable mentii 
Ednah B. Hale, Nelly E. Sherwood, Norman Henderson, Elsie and Frank Du Pont, Thomas Turner, Alice W. Ives, M. T. Pitman, A 
laide Long, Elsa and Grace Hobart, Richmond W. R. J affray, Bessie Thomas, Ethel Oliver, Hattie F. Johnson, George Aston, Cha 
Brooks Stevens, Mary F. Sinclair, Annie Young, Gertie Baylor, Walter Austin, Jamie J. Ormsbee, Jenny Almy, Jennie D. V. Brown, J. 
Lighthipe, " Beau K," "The Little Gallaudets," Sarah E. Shankland, Grace Gilbert, Nellie W. Banks, Alexis J. Du P. Coleman, S. 
Lambert, Evy and Fanny, Lulu Wight, Frank and Edgar Lethbridge, Emily Shaw Sargent, M. Joe Shotwell, Harry G. Andress, Be; 
H. Van Cleef, Fannie M. Hall, Minnie L. Welles, Robert De Wolfe Duck, Florence Worthington, William Loving, Jr., Hannah Cla 
EI good C. Lufkin, Eddie B. Van Vleck, Julia V. Laquerenne, Herman N. Tiemann, Harmon W. Marsh, Lulu Bull, Anna M. Ghn 
L. J. McMullen, Ed. T. Okells, T. L. Davis, Constant and Louis W. Jones, Henry F. Guy, Emily O. Post, Ida H. Jenkins, Frank Al 
ander, Nicholas Brewer, Jr., George G. Humphrey, D. W. Murther, Wi'lie O. Tremaine, Grace M. Thiikal, Mabel Moore, Horace S. D01 
Le Baron Hathaway, Carrie Crawford, Jack and Carrie, "The Buttles Children," Henry C. White, Fred W. Porter, Ellie Turner, "Grai 
mamma" (answers in verse), M. W. Collet, Robert Edwin Withers, Annie May Keith, Charles A. Rossiter, Emily Van Zandt, Kate 
Noble, G. E. Rogers, Harry H. Wyman, Carrie R. Lord.Minnie Bateham. 

For the satisfaction of all those who have sent in sets of answers, we give the following list of special answers that, though not the same 
those given in our December nnmber, were good enough to be considered correct, viz. : For answer 3. Two feet, ^ of a yard, we allow 
Bush, two-thirds of a bushel. 7. Horn- — Bow; Robin Hood was skillful with the longbow. 14. Hide — Hook (to steal). 16. Crook — Bat 
shoulders. 20. The Hidden Hand — "Blade o' Grass," "Fast Friends," "On Guard," "On the Heights." 22. Band — Stafi, an 
23. Fleece — Hook, pocket. 25. Nails — Plane. 28. Blades — Teeth. 29. Hill — Walker. 37. Anns — Spears. 40. Pear — Apple (thesai 
as pupil). 41. Knees — Sides. 44. Mouth — Head. 46. Face — Hand (not hands, as there is only one in the picture). 47. Black Legi 
Lambs (gambolers). 48. Sheet's Heads — Soles. 49. Joint — Mutton, leg of lamb. 50. Pupils and Tulips — Pupils and irises. 52. Rcs\ 
Staff, paws (pause), a minor. 54. Wool — Banks, Lee, Mead, Greene. 55. Tulips — Irises, phlox. 56. Teeth — Blade. 57. Neck — Headlai 

As some of those sending answers from distant States, such as California and Nebraska, have complained that they did not have sufficM 
time, it may be well to state that the last-named of the three winners, though living within a few miles cf New York, was among the very lat> 
to send in her answers, so that if those received from the distant subscribers had been as correct they slill would have been first in point of tin 
Indeed, a set of answers was received from Scotland before the expiration of the time allowed. A "grandmamma" sent an excellent set 
answers, embodied in graceful rhyme, which perhaps may find a place in our next number. 



! "5 

o s- 

< a 

2 3 


Vol. II. 

FEBRUARY, 1875. 

No. 4. 

By Hezekiah Butterworth. 

SOME forty years ago, there lived in the quiet 
town of East Haverhill, Massachusetts, a much 
respected Quaker family by the name of Whittier. 
They were hard-working, thrifty farmers, and their 
home was known to all the poor in that section ; 
no one was ever turned away from their door un- 
pitied, unclothed, or unfed. 

Even the Indians had respected Grandfather 
Whittier in the stormy times of the Indian war. 
His house had stood near a garrison, but he would 
accept of no protection from the soldiers. He did 
not Believe in the use of weapons ; he treated the 
savages kindly ; they owed him no ill-will, and the 
benevolent old man tilled fields in safety, and feared 
no harm. 

Among Mr. Whittier's children was a boy named 
John, who had a very feeling heart and a quick 
mind. He was a hard-working farmer lad, who 
knew more of the axe, the sickle and hoe than 
the playthings of childhood. Indeed, New Eng- 
land children had but a glimpse at the sunniness 
of youth in those hard times ; no long daisied 
walks, stretching far into life, they could call their 

His early education consisted of a few weeks' 
schooling for a number of winters in the district 
school. A queer sort of a school it was, — kept in 
a private house. The schoolmaster was a kind, 
good man, and he did not ply the birch very vigor- 
ously, like most of the schoolmasters in these old 
times. He was more like Oliver Goldsmith, who 
used to govern his school by giving the children 
sugar-plums and telling them wonderful stories. 

VOL. II. — 14. 

[ohn loved him, and spoke a kind word for him 
when he became a man. 

In the library there is a beautiful poem called 
" Snow- Bound," — a very good poem for good 
people to read. Now the boy lived in just such a 
home as is described in that poem, and his boy- 
hood was passed among just such scenes as are 
pictured there. You may like to read it some 
day, so we need not try to tell what has been told 
so well. 

He was a poet in boyhood. He did not know 
it. There are many poets who do not. He loved 
to love others and be loved ; he could see things 
in nature that others could not see, — in the woods 
and fields ; in the blue Merrimac ; in the serene 
sky of the spring, and the tinges of the sunset. 
He had but few books, — perhaps no books of 
poetry, for music and poetry his father classed 
among the "'vanities" which the Bible denounced. 
But there was mudi poetry in the Bible ; his " Pil- 
grim's Progress " was almost a poem ; and nature 
to him was like a book of poems, for there was 
poetry in his soul. 

He used to express his feelings in rhyme ; how 
could the boy help it ? He one day wrote one of 
these poems on some coarse paper, and sent it 
privately to a paper called the Free Press, published 
in the neighboring town of Newburyport. 

The editor of the paper, whose name was Gar- 
rison — William Lloyd Garrison, you may have 
heard the name before — found the poem tucked 
under the door of his office by the postman, and 
noticing that it was written in blue ink, was tempted 




to throw it into his waste-basket. But Mr. Garri- 
son had a good, kind heart, and liked to give 
every one a chance in the world. He read the 
poem, saw there was true genius in it, and so he 
published it. 

Happy was the Quaker farmer boy when he saw 
his verses in print. He felt that God had some- 
thing in store in life for him — that he was called 
in some way to be good and useful to others. He 
wrote other poems, and sent them to Mr. Gar- 

They were full of beauties — these poems. Mr. 
Garrison one day asked the postman from what 
quarter they came. 

" I am accustomed to deliver a package of papers 
to a farmer-boy in East Haverhill. I guess they 
come from him." 

Mr. Garrison thought he must ride over to East 
Haverhill and see. 

So he went one day. and found a slender, sweet- 
faced farmer-boy working with his plain, practical 
father on the farm. The boy modestly acknowl- 
edged that he had written the poems ; at which his 
father did not seem over well pleased. 

" You must send that boy to school, Friend 
Whittier," said Mr. Garrison. 

Friend Whittier was not so sure ; but the good 
counsel of the Newburyport editor, in the end, was 
decisive. The boy was sent to the academy. 

John is an old man now, almost sixty years of 
age. He lives at Amesbury, near the beautiful 
Merrimac, that he loved in youth. Almost every 
boy and girl in the land can repeat some of the 
poems he has written. 

He has no wife and children, yet his home is 
cheerful and social, and is open to the stranger, like 
his father's and grandfather's of old. 

In common with most men of genius, he is very 
fond of pets, and, among these favorites, little ani- 
mals and birds have their place. It is of one of 
these household pets that we have a story to tell. 

She was a parrot, and she belonged to that re- 
spectable branch of the parrot family named Polly. 
Polly succeeded, among her master's favorites, a 
smart little bantam, who once had the freedom of 
the house, and who perished, we think, in an un- 
equal contest with an evil-disposed cat. 

Polly, too, had the freedom of the house at times, 
and used to sit on the back of the poet's chair at 
his meals, and the two sometimes held very pro- 
found and confidential conversations together. 

The poet is a pious man. We have seen the 
little Quaker church to which he goes regularly on 
Sundays and Thursdays for silent worship ; it is a 
quiet rural fane, and seems like a little school- 
house in the wood. Polly, who had been badly 
brought up, became demure and well-behaved 

immediately after her adoption ; so, for a time, tin 
poet and Polly were in perfect sympathy. 

One Sabbath day, Polly, who had doubtles: 
heard much about large views from the poet' 
learned visitors, thought that she would take ; 
somewhat larger view of the world. So, as th 
people were going to church, she climbed upon thi 
top of the house, and sat upon the ridge-pole, 
then occurred to her, that, having reached a mor 
exalted sphere of thought and action, she wouliB 
behave well no more. She had been in bad comB 
pany before she had fallen in with her new friendsB 
and her memory was very good. 

So Polly began to denounce the people going tl 
church in very shocking language. She waB 
doing the poet great scandal, and exciting markeB 
public attention, when her astonished master acflj 
peared, rake in hand, and proceeded at once tfl 
administer discipline by bringing her down frorBJ 
her high position and subjecting her to plaiBj 
Quaker discipline. 

Poily was in disgrace for a time, but she su< 
ceeded in re-establishing her character agairBj 
though it was not thought certain that her goocBj 
ness would be able to withstand very grave tempt;Bj 

One day, Polly succeeded in reaching the housiBj 
top again, and began to congratulate herself cjB 
the recovery of her former high position and fre'Bj 
dom. She reached the top of the chimney thai 
time, and was seen tilting up and down and tryin 
her wings, as though preparing to launch out ini 
the air on a long voyage of discovery. Suddenl; 
she was gone. Where ? No one had notice 
which direction she had taken. No one had heai 
her shout of triumph in the glad, sunny air.» B^ 
Polly was gone. 

The news flew through the village that tl 
parrot had left her home, and become a very str; 
bird. The children looked for her in the fiek 
and the farmers in the woods; every one tried 
keep ears and eyes open day and night, but nothir 
of Polly was seen or heard. The poet's house w 
no longer filled with quiet gladness, for the inmat 
all pitied the bird when night came on, and it 
agined that she was far away in the woods, hung 
and out in the cold. Two days passed and 
tidings were brought of the wandering bird. Tl 
neighbors began to think that, like one of Shak 
speare's heroes, she had died " and made no sign 
On the third night, when two young persons, as \ 
have heard the story, were sitting in one of tl 
rooms in the cottage, they were startled by 
sound, as though some evil-disposed intruder h; 
concealed himself in the fire-place. An investig 
tion was determined upon ; the fire-place w 
opened, and lo ! " Poor Polly ! " 




She was a very damaged bird. She had fallen 
wn the chimney when just about to soar to the 
ies, and, landing in a very dark place, probably 
DUght that there had been an eclipse of the 
n, or that night had come on in some manner 
t accounted for in her limited astronomy. She 
lintainsd silence three days ; she had nothing 

Polly's high aspirations were blighted from that 
ur. She was a discouraged, disappointed bird. 

She grew silent and pined away, and, like other 
bold adventurers who have been brought plump 
down when just about to launch out on the breezes 
of fame, she died of her bruises and of a broken 

Her decline was marked with sincere regret, and 
there was a sorrowful tenderness in her master's 
tone, as he watched her in these adverse and 
altered days. 

Poor Polly ! 


_j.;:M3- 5 


By Louisa M. Alcott. 

Chapter III. — Uncles. 

When Rose woke next morning, she was not 
ire whether she had dreamed what occurred the 
ight before, or whether it had actually happened. 
she hopped up and dressed, although it was an 
our earlier than she usually rose, for she could not 
eep any more, being possessed with a strong 
ssire to slip down and see if the big portmanteau 
nd packing-cases were really in the hall. She 
:emed to remember tumbling over them when 
le went to bed, for the aunts had sent her off very 
unctually, because they wanted their pet nephew 
11 to themselves. 

The sun was shining, and Rose opened her win- 
ow to let in the soft May air fresh from the sea. 
l3 she leaned over her little balcony, watching an 
arly bird get the worm, and wondering how she 
aould like Uncle Alec, she saw a man leap the 

garden wall and come whistling up the path. At 
first she thought it was some trespasser, but a 
second look showed her that it was her uncle re- 
turning from an early dip into the sea." She had 
hardly dared to look at him the night before, be- 
cause whenever she tried to do so she always found 
a pair of keen blue eyes looking at her. Now she 
could take a good stare at him as he lingered 
along, looking about him as if glad to see the old 
place again. 

A brown, breezy man, in a blue jacket, with no 
hat on the curly head which he shook now and 
then like a water-dog ; broad-shouldered, alert in 
his motions, and with a general air of strength and 
stability about him which pleased Rose, though she 
could not explain the feeling of comfort it gave her. 
She had just said to herself, with a sense of relief, 
" I guess I s/ia// like him, though he looks as if he 
made people mind," when he lifted his eyes to 




examine the budding horse-chestnut overhead, and 
saw the eager face peering down at him. He 
waved his hand to her, nodded, and called out in a 
bluff, cheery voice : 

" You are on deck early, little niece/' 

" I got up to see if you had really come, uncle." 

"Did you? Well, come down here and make 
sure of it. " 

" I 'm not allowed to go out before breakfast, 

" Oh, indeed ! " with a shrug. " Then I '11 come 
aboard and salute," he added; and, to Rose's great 
amazement, Uncle Alec went up one of the pillars 
of the back piazza hand over hand, stepped across 
the roof, and swung himself into her balcony, say- 
ing, as he landed on the wide balustrade : " Have 
you any doubts about me now, ma'am ? " 

Rose was so taken aback, she could only answer 
with a smile as she went to meet him. 

'■ How does my girl do this morning ?" he asked, 
taking the little cold hand she gave him in both his 
big warm ones. 

" Pretty well, thank you, sir." 

• ' Ah, but it should be very well. Why is n't it ? " 

" I always wake up with a headache, and feel 

•' Don't you sleep well ? " 

• ' I lie awake a long time, and then I dream, and 
my sleep does not seem to rest me much." 

" What do you do all day?" 

" Oh. I read, and sew a little, and take naps and 
sit with auntie." 

"No running about out of doors, or house-work, 
or riding, hey ?" 

" Aunt Plenty says I 'm not strong enough for 
much exercise. I drive out with her sometimes, 
but I don't care for it." 

" I'm not surprised at that," said Uncle Alec, 
half to himself, adding, in his quick way: " Who 
have you had to play with ? " 

" No one but Ariadne Blish, and she was such a 
goose I could n't bear her. The boys came yester- 
day, and seemed rather nice : but. of course, I 
couldn't play with them." 

"Why not?" 

" I 'm too old to play with boys." 

" Not a bit of it ; that's just what you need, for 
you 've been molly-coddled too much. They are 
good lads, and you '11 be mixed up with them more 
or less for years to come, so you may as well be 
friends and playmates at once. I will look you up 
some girls also, if I can find a sensible one who is 
not spoilt by her nonsensical education." 

" Phebe is sensible, I'm sure, and I like her. 
though I only saw her yesterday," cried Rose, 
waking up suddenly. 

"And who is Phebe. if you please?" 

Rose eagerly told all she knew, and Uncle Ali 
listened, with an odd smile lurking about his moutl 
though his eyes were quite sober as he watched ti 
face before him. 

" I 'm glad to see that you are not aristocratic 
your tastes, but I don't quite make out why yc 
like this young lady from the poor-house." 

" You may laugh at me, but I do. I can't te 
why, only she seems so happy and busy, and sins 
so beautifully, and is strong enough to scrub ar 
sweep, and has n't any troubles to plague her 
said Rose, making a funny jumble of reasons 
her efforts to explain. 

" How do you know that ?" 

" Oh, I was telling her about mine, and aske 
if she had any, and she said, ' No, only I 'd like 
go to school, and I mean to some day.' " 

" So she does n't call desertion, poverty, ar. 
hard work, troubles ? She 's a brave little gii 
and I shall be proud to know her." And Unc 
Alec gave an approving nod, that made Rose wi: 
she had been the one to earn it. 

" But what are these troubles of yours, child 
he asked, after a minute of silence. 

" Please don't ask me., uncle." 

"Can't you tell them to me as well as 

Something in his tone made Rose feel that 
would be better to speak out and be done with 
so she answered, with sudden color and averti 
eyes : 

"The greatest one was losing dear papa." 

As she said that, Uncle Alec's arm came genl 
round her, and he drew her to him, saying, in t 
voice so like papa's : 

" That is a trouble which I cannot cure, v. 
child ; but I shall try to make you feel it It: 
What else, dear?" 

" I am so tired and poorly all the time, I ca 
do anything 1 want to, and it makes me cros: 
sighed Rose, rubbing the aching head like a fret 

" That we can cure and we will," said her unc 
with a decided nod that made the curls bob on 1 
head, so that Rose saw the gray ones underner 
the brown. 

"Aunt Myra says I have no constitution, a 
never shall be strong," observed Rose, in a pensi 
tone, as if it was rather a nice thing to be 

" Aunt Myra is a — ahem ! — an excellent worn;: 
but it is her hobby to believe that every one is t 
tering on the brink of the grave ; and, upon 
life, I believe she is offended if people don't i 
into it ! We will show her how to make consti 
tions and turn pale-faced little ghosts into ro 
hcartv girls. That's my business, you know," 



ided, more quietly, for his sudden outburst had 
'fher startled Rose. 

" I had forgotten you were a doctor. I 'm glad 

it, for I do want to be well, only I hope you 
Mi give me much medicine, for I 've taken quarts 
ready, and it does me no good." 

As she spoke, Rose pointed to a little table just 

side the window, on which appeared a regiment 


" Ah, ha ! Now we '11 see what mischief these 
essed women have been at." And, making a 
ng arm, Dr. Alec set the bottles on the wide rail- 

g before him, examined each carefully, smiled 
u-er some, frowned over others, and said, as he 
fit down the last : " Now I '11 show you the best 
ay to take these messes." And, as quick as a 
■ ish, he sent one after another smashing down into 
f ie posy-beds below. 

r " But Aunt Plenty wont like it ; and Aunt Myra 
i ill be angry, for she sent most of them 1" cried 
ose, half-frightened and half-pleased at such 
lergetic measures. 

M " You are my patient now, and I '11 take the 
isponsibility. My way of giving physic is evi- 
:ntly the best, for you look better already," he 
lid, laughing so infectiously that Rose followed 
lit, saying, saucily : 

" If I don't like your medicines any better than 
-lose, I shall throw them into the garden, and then 
hat will you do ? " 

" When I prescribe such rubbish, I '11 give you 
jave to pitch it overboard as soon as you like, 
low what is the next trouble ? " 

" I hoped you would forget to ask." 

" But how can I help you if I don't know them ? 
bme, let us have No. 3." 

"It is very wrong, I suppose, but I do some- 
mes wish I had not quite so many aunts. They 
re all very good to me, and I want to please them ; 
f ut they are so different, I feel sort of pulled to 
ieces among them," said Rose, trying to express 
ae emotions of a stray chicken with six hens all 
lucking over it at once. 

Uncle Alec threw back his head and laughed 
ke a boy, for he could entirely understand how 
he good ladies had each put in her oar and tried 
3 paddle her own way, to the great disturbance of 
lie waters and the entire bewilderment of poor Rose. 

" I intend to try a course of uncles now, and see 
now that suits your constitution. I 'm going to 
lave you all to myself, and no one is to give a 
rard of advice unless I ask it. There is no other 
ray to keep order aboard, and I am captain of 
his little craft, for a time at least. What comes 

But Rose stuck there, and grew so red, her 
mcle guessed what that trouble was. 

" I don't think I can tell this one. It would n't 
be polite, and I feel pretty sure that it is n't going 
to be a trouble any more." 

As she blushed and stammered over these words, 
Dr. Alec turned his eyes away to the distant sea, 
and said so seriously, so tenderly, that she felt every 
word and long remembered them : 

" My child, I don't expect you to love and trust 
me all at once, but I do want you to believe that I 
shall give my whole heart to this new duty ; and 
if I make mistakes, as I probably shall, no one will 
grieve over them more bitterly than I. It is my 
fault that I am a stranger to you, when I want to 
be your best friend. That is one of my mistakes, 
and I never repented it more deeply than I do now. 
Your father and I had a trouble once, and I thought 
I never could forgive him ; so I kept away for years. 
Thank God, we made it all up the last time I saw 
him, and he told me then, that if he was forced to 
leave her, he should bequeath his little girl to me 
as a token of his love. I can't fill his place, but I 
shall try to be a father to her ; and if she learns to 
love me one half as well as she did the good one 
she has lost, I shall be a proud and happy man. 
Will she believe this and try ? " 

Something in Uncle Alec's face touched Rose to 
the heart, and when he held out his hand with that 
anxious, troubled look in his eyes, she was moved 
to put up her innocent lips and seal the contract 
with a confiding kiss. The strong arm held her 
close a minute, and she felt the broad chest heave 
once as if with a great sigh of relief; but not a 
word was spoken till a tap at the door made both 

Rose popped her head through the window to 
say " come in," while Dr. Alec hastily rubbed the 
sleeve of his jacket across his eyes and began to 
whistle again. 

Phebe appeared with a cup of coffee. 

" Debby told me to bring this and help you get 
up," she said, opening her black eyes wide, as if 
she wondered how on earth "the sailor man" got 

" I 'm all dressed, so I don't need any help. I 
hope that is good and strong," added Rose, eyeing 
the steaming cup with an eager look. 

But she did not get it, for a brown hand took 
possession of it as her uncle said, quickly: 

" Hold hard, my lass, and let me overhaul that 
dose before you take it. Do you drink all this 
strong coffee every morning, Rose?" 

" Yes, sir, and I like it. Auntie says it ' tones' 
me up, and I always feel better after it. " 

" This accounts for the sleepless nights, the flut- 
ter your heart gets into at the least start, and this 
is why that cheek of yours is pale yellow instead of 
rosy red. No more coffee for you, my dear, and 




by and by you '11 see that I am right. Any new 
milk down stairs, Phebe?" 

" Yes, sir, plenty — right in from the barn." 

" That 's the drink for my patient. Go bring me 
a pitcherful, and another cup ; I want a draught 
myself. This wont hurt the honeysuckles, for they 
have no nerves to speak of. " And, to Rose's great 
discomfort, the coffee went after the medicine. 

Dr. Alec saw the injured look she put on, but 
took no notice, and presently banished it by say- 
ing, pleasantly : 

" I 've got a capital little cup among my traps, 
and I '11 give it to you to drink your milk in, as it is 
made of wood that is supposed to improve what- 
ever is put into it — something like a quassia cup. 
That reminds me ; one of the boxes Phebe wanted 
to lug upstairs last night is for you. Knowing that 
I was coming home to find a ready-made daughter. 
I picked up all sorts of odd and pretty trifles along 
the way, hoping she would be able to find some- 
thing she liked among them all. Early to-morrow 
we'll have a grand rummage. Here's our milk ! 
I propose the health of Miss Rose Campbell — and 
drink it with all my heart." 

It was impossible for Rose to pout with the pros- 
pect of a delightful boxful of gifts dancing before 
her eyes ; so, in spite of herself, she smiled as she 
drank her own health, and found that fresh milk 
was not a hard dose to take. 

" Now I must be off, before I am caught again 
with my wig in a toss," said Dr. Alec, preparing to 
descend the way he came. 

■ ' Do you always go in and out like a cat. uncle ? " 
asked Rose, much amused at his odd ways. 

■' I used to sneak out of my window when I was 
a boy, so I need not disturb the aunts, and now I 
rather like it, for it 's the shortest road, and it keeps 
me limber when I have no rigging to climb. Good- 
by till breakfast." And away he went down the 
water-spout, over the roof, and vanished among the 
budding honeysuckles below. 

" Aint he a funny guardeen ?" exclaimed Phebe. 
as she went off with the cups. 

"He is a very kind one, I think," answered 
Rose, following, to prowl round the big boxes and 
try to guess which was hers. 

When her uncle appeared at sound of the bell, 
he found her surveying with an anxious face a new- 
dish that smoked upon the table. 

" Got a fresh trouble, Rosy?" he asked, stroking 
her smooth head. 

" Uncle, are you going to make me eat oat- 
meal ? " asked Rose, in a tragic tone. 

" Don't you like it ?" 

"' I de-test it ! " answered Rose, with all the em- 
phasis which a turned-up nose, a shudder, and a 
groan could give to the three words. 

" You are not a true Scotchwoman, if you doi 
like the 'parritch.' It's a pity, for I made it m 
self, and thought we 'd have such a good time wi 
all that cream to float it in. Well, never mind 
And he sat down with a disappointed air. 

Rose had made up her mind to be obstina 
about it, because she did heartily "detest' 
dish : but as Uncle Alec did not attempt to ma 
her obey, she suddenly changed her mind a: 
thought she would. 

"I'll try to eat it to please you, uncle; 
people are always saying how wholesome it is, ai 
that makes me hate it," she said, half-ashamed 
her silly excuse. 

"I do want you to like it, because I wish my g 
to be as well and strong as Jessie's boys, who 
brought up on this in the good old fashion, 
hot bread and fried stuff for them, and they are t 
biggest and bonniest lads of the lot. Bless yi- 
auntie, and good morning ! " 

Dr. Alec turned to greet the old lady, and, 
a firm resolve to eat or die in the attempt. Re 
sat down. 

In five minutes she forgot what she was eatir 
so interested was she in the chat that went on. 
amused her very much to hear Aunt Plenty c 
her forty-year-old nephew, "my dear boy," 
Uncle Alec was so full of lively gossip about 
creation in general, and the Aunt-hill in particul 
that the detested porridge vanished without a m 1 

" You will go to church with us, I hope, Al- 
if you are not too tired," said the old lady, wli 
breakfast was over. 

" I came all the way from Calcutta for that 
press purpose, ma'am. Only I must send the 
ters word of my arrival, for they don't expect 
till to-morrow, you know, and there will be a r 
in church if those boys see me without warning. 

" I '11 send Ben up the hill, and you can si 
over to Myra's yourself; it will please her, and ; 
will have plenty of time. " 

Dr. Alec was off at once, and they saw no m. 
of him till the old barouche was at the door, 
Aunt Plenty just rustling down stairs in her Si 
day best, with Rose like a little black shadow 
hind her. 

Away they drove in state, and all the way Un 
Alec's hat was more off his head than on, for ev 
one they met smiled and bowed, and gave him 
blithe a greeting as the day permitted. 

It was evident that the warning had been a v. 
one, for. in spite of time and place, the lads w 
in such a ferment, that their elders sat in 
mentary dread of an unseemly outbreak sor 
where. It was simply impossible to keep th 
fourteen eyes off Uncle Alec, and the dreac 




lings that were done 
ardly be believed. 

Rose dared not look up after awhile, for these 
ad boys vented their emotions upon her, till she 
'as ready to laugh and cry with mingled amuse- 
rent and vexation. Charlie winked rapturously 
t her behind his mother's fan ; Mac openly pointed 
. d the tall figure beside her ; Jamie stared fixedly 
,'ver the back of his pew, till Rose thought his 
ound eyes would drop out of his head ; George 
ell over a stool and dropped three books, in 
lis excitement ; Will drew sailors and Chinamen 
j in his clean cuffs, and displayed them, to Rose's 
jreat tribulation ; Steve nearly upset the whole 
jarty by burning his nose with salts, as he pre- 
ended to be overcome by his joy ; even dignified 
\rchie disgraced himself by writing in his hymn- 
300k, " Is n't he blue and brown f" and passing it 
politely to Rose. 

Her only salvation was trying to fix her attention 

jirpon Uncle Mac — a portly, placid gentleman, who 

seemed entirely unconscious of the iniquities of the 

'Clan, and dozed peacefully in his pew corner. 

jThis was the only uncle Rose had met for years, 

for Uncle Jem and Uncle Steve, the husbands of 

Aunt Jessie and Aunt Clara, were at sea, and Aunt 

Myra was a widow. Uncle Mac was a merchant, 

[very rich and busy, and as quiet as a mouse at 

j 'home, for he was in such a minority among the 

.women folk, he dared not open his lips, and let 

his wife rule undisturbed. 

Rose liked the big, kindly, silent man who came to 
/ her when papa died, was always sending her splen- 
did boxes of goodies at school, and often invited 
her into his great warehouse, full of teas and spices, 
wines and all sorts of foreign fruits, there to eat and 
carry away whatever she liked. She had secretly 
, regretted that he was not to be her guardian ; but 
since she had seen Uncle Alec she felt better about 
; it, for she did not particularly admire Aunt Jane. 
When church was over. Dr. Alec got into the 
porch as quickly as possible, and there the young 
bears had a hug all round, while the sisters shook 
hands and welcomed him with bright faces and 
. glad hearts. Rose was nearly crushed flat behind 
a door in that dangerous passage from pew to 
porch; but Uncle Mac rescued her, and put her 
into the carriage for safe keeping. 

" Now, girls, I want you all to come and dine 
with Alec ; Mac also, of course. But I cannot ask 
the boys, for we did not expect this dear fellow till 
to-morrow, you know, so I made no preparations. 
Send the lads home, and let them wait till Mon- 
day, for really I was shocked at their behavior in 
church," said Aunt. Plenty, as she followed Rose. 

In any other place the defrauded boys would 
have set up a howl ; as it was,, they growled and 

during sermon-time will protested till Dr. Alec settled the matter by say- 

" Never mind, old chaps. I '11 make it up to you 
to-morrow, if you sheer off quietly ; if you don't, 
not a blessed thing shall you have out of my big 

Chapter IV. 


All dinner-time Rose felt that she was going to 
be talked about, and afterward she was sure of it, 
for Aunt Plenty whispered to her as they went into 
the parlor : 

" Run up and sit awhile with Sister Peace, my 
dear. She likes to have you read while she rests, 
and we are going to be busy. " 

Rose obeyed, and the quiet rooms above were so 
like a church that she soon composed her ruffled 
feelings, and was unconsciously a little minister of 
happiness to the sweet old lady, who for years had 
sat there patiently waiting to be set free from 

Rose knew the sad romance of her life, and it 
gave a certain tender charm to this great aunt of 
hers, whom she already loved. When Peace was 
twenty, she was about to be married : all was done, 
the wedding dress lay ready, the flowers were wait- 
ing to be put on, the happy hour at hand, when word 
came that the lover was dead. They thought that 
gentle Peace would die too ; but she bore it bravely, 
put away her bridal gear, took up her life afresh, 
and lived on- -a beautiful, meek woman, with hair 
as white as snow and cheeks that never bloomed 
again. She wore no black, but soft, pale colors, as 
if always ready for the marriage that had never 

For thirty years she had lived on, fading slowly, 
but cheerful, busy, and full of interest in all that 
went on in the family -, especially the joys and 
sorrows of the young girls growing up about her, 
and to them she was adviser, confidante and friend 
in all their tender trials and delights. A truly 
beautiful old maiden, with her silvery hair, tranquil 
face, and an atmosphere of repose about her that 
soothed whoever came to her ! 

Aunt Plenty was utterly dissimilar, being a stout, 
brisk old lady, with a sharp eye, a lively tongue, 
and a face like a winter-apple. Always trotting, 
chatting and bustling, she was a regular Martha, 
cumbered with the cares of this world and quite 
happy in them. 

Rose was right : and while she softly read psalms 
to Aunt Peace, the other ladies were talking about 
her little self in the frankest manner. 

" Well, Alec, how do you like your ward?" be- 
gan Aunt Jane, as they all settled down, and Uncle 




Mac deposited himself in a corner to finish his 

" I should like her better if I could have begun 
at the beginning, and so got a fair start. Poor 
George led such a solitary life that the child has 
suffered in many ways, and since he died she has 
been going on worse than ever, judging from the 
state I find her in." 

" My dear boy, we did what we thought best 
while waiting for you to wind up your affairs and 
get home. I always told George he was wrong to 
bring her up as he did ; but he never took my 

about ever since she came. A most ruinous state 
of things for a morbid, spoilt girl like Rose," said 
Mrs. Jane, severely. 

She had never forgiven the old ladies for yielding 
to Rose's pathetic petition that she might wait her 
guardian's arrival before beginning another term 1 
at the school, which was a regular Blimber hot- 
"bed, and turned out many a feminine Toots. 

"/ never thought it the proper school for a child 
in good circumstances. — an heiress, in fact, as Rose 
is. It is all very well for girls who are to get their 
own living by teaching, and that sort of thing ; buti 






advice, and now here we are with this poor dear 
child upon our hands. I, for one, freely confess 
that I don't know what to do with her any more 
than if she was one of those strange, outlandish 
birds you used to bring home from foreign parts." 
And Aunt Plenty gave a perplexed shake of the 
head, which caused great commotion among the 
stiff loops of purple ribbon that bristled all over 
her cap like crocus buds. 

" If mv advice had been taken, she would have 
remained at the excellent school where I placed 
her. But our aunt thought best to remove her be- 
cause she complained, and she has been dawdling 

all slic needs is a year or two at a fashionable finish- 
ing-school, so that at eighteen she can come out 
with eclat," put in Aunt Clara, who had been a 
beauty and a belle, and was still a handsome 

"Dear, dear! how short-sighted you all are to 1 
be discussing education and plans for the future, 
when this unhappy child is so plainly marked for 
the tomb," sighed Aunt Myra, with a lugubrious 
sniff and a solemn wag of the funereal bonnet, 
which she refused to remove, being afflicted with a 
chronic catarrh. 

" Now, it is my opinion that the dear thing only 1 




nts freedom, rest and care. There is a look in 
- eyes that goes to my heart, for it shows that 
: feels the need of what none of us can give her 
1 mother," said Aunt Jessie, with tears in her 
n bright eyes at the thought of her boys being 
:, as Rose was, to the care of others. 

rjncle Alec, who had listened silently as each 
>ke, turned quickly toward the last sister, and 

[i, with a decided nod of approval : 

c ' You 've got it, Jessie ; and, with you to help 

j , I hope to make the child feel that she is not 

ute fatherless and motherless." 

■ I '11 do my best, Alec ; and I think you will 
:d me, for, wise as you are, you cannot under- 
nd a tender, timid, little creature like Rose as a 
man can," said Mrs. Jessie, smiling back at him 
h a heart full of motherly good-will. 

: ' I cannot help feeling that /, who have had a 
jghter of my own, can best bring up a girl ; and 
m very much surprised that George did not in- 
st her to me," observed Aunt Myra, with an air 
melancholy importance, for she was the only one 
o had given a daughter to the family, and she 
: that she had distinguished herself, though ill— 
tured people said that she had dosed her darling 
death. ■ 

"I never blamed him in the least, when I re- 
smber the perilous experiments you tried with 
or Carrie," began Mrs. Jane, in her hard voice. 

■ Jane Campbell, I will not hear a word ! My 
nted Caroline is a sacred subject," cried Aunt 
fra, rising as if to leave the room. 

Dr. Alec detained her, feeling that he must de- 
e his position at once, and maintain it manfully, 
he hoped to have any success in his new under- 

," Now, my dear souls, don't let us quarrel and 
ike Rose a bone of contention — though, upon 
7 word, she is almost a bone, poor little lass ! 
du have had her among you for a year, and done 
lat you liked. I cannot say that your success is 
sat, but that is owing to too many fingers in the 
';. Now, I intend to try my way for a year, and 
it the end of it she is not in better trim than 
w, I '11 give up the case, and hand her over to 
me one else. That's fair, I think." 
"She will not be here a year hence, poor dar- 
, g, so no one need dread future responsibility," 
d Aunt Myra. folding her black gloves as if all 
idy for the funeral. 

"By Jupiter, Myra, you are enough to damp 
e ardor of a saint !" cried Dr. Alec, with a sud- 
n spark in his eyes. " Your croaking will worry 
^t child out of her wits, for she is an imaginative 
iss, and will fret and fancy untold horrors. You 
ve put it into her head that she has no constitu- 
n, and she rather likes the idea. . If she had not 

had a pretty good one, she would have been 
' marked for the tomb ' by this time, at the rate 
you have been going on with her. I will not have 
any interference — please understand that ; so just 
wash your hands of her, and let me manage till I 
want help, then I '11 ask for it." 

''Hear, hear!" came from the corner where 
Uncle Mac was apparently wrapt in slumber. 

" You were appointed guardian, so we can do 
nothing. But I predict that the girl will be spoilt, 
utterly spoilt," answered Mrs. Jane, grimly. 

'• Thank you, sister. I have an idea that if a 
woman can bring up two boys as perfectly as you 
do yours, a man, if he devotes his whole mind to 
it, may at least attempt as much with one girl," 
replied Dr. Alec, with a humorous look that tickled 
the others immensely, for it was a well-known fact 
in the family that Jane's boys were more indulged 
than all the other lads put together. 

"/am quite easy, for I really do think that Alec 
will improve the child's health ; and by the time 
his year is out, it will be quite soon enough for her 
to go to Madame Roccabella's and be finished off," 
said Aunt Clara, settling her rings, and thinking, 
with languid satisfaction, of the time when she 
could bring out a pretty and accomplished niece. 

" I suppose you will stay here in the old place, 
unless you think of marrying, and it 's high time 
you did," put in Mrs. Jane, much nettled at her 
brother's last hit. 

"'No, thank you. Come and have a cigar, Mac," 
said Dr. Alec, abruptly. . 

"Don't worry; women enough in the family 
already," muttered Uncle Mac; and then the 
gentlemen hastily fled. 

" Aunt Peace would like to see you all, she says," 
was the message Rose brought before the ladies 
could begin again. 

"Hectic, hectic! — dear me, dear me!" mur- 
mured Aunt Myra, as the shadow of her gloomy 
bonnet fell upon Rose, and the stiff tips of a black 
glove touched the cheek where the color deepened 
under so many eyes. 

'•' I am glad these pretty curls are natural ; they 
will be invaluable by and by," said Aunt Clara, 
taking an observation with her head on one side. 

" Now that your uncle has come, I no longer 
expect you to review the studies of the past year. 
I trust your time will not be entirely wasted in 
frivolous sports, however." added Aunt Jane, sail- 
ing out of the room with the air of a martyr. 

Aunt Jessie said not a word, but kissed her little 
niece, with a look of tender sympathy that made 
Rose cling to her a minute, and follow her with 
grateful eyes as the door closed behind her. 

After everybody had gone home, Dr. Alec paced 
up and down the lower hall in the twilight for an 




hour, thinking so intently that sometimes he 
frowned, sometimes he smiled, and more than 
once he stood still in a brown study. All of a sud- 
den he said, half aloud, as if he had made up his 
mind : 

" I might as well begin at once, and give the 
child something new to think about, for Myra's 
dismals and Jane's lectures have made her as blue 
as a little indigo bag." 

Diving into one of the trunks that stood in a 
corner, he brought up, after a brisk rummage, a 
silken cushion, prettily embroidered, and a quaint 
cup of dark carved wood. 

" This will do for a start," he said, as he plumped 
up the cushion and dusted the cup. " It wont do 
to begin too energetically, or Rose will be fright- 
ened. I must beguile her gently and pleasantly 
along till I Ye won her confidence, and then she 
will be ready for anything." 

Just then Phebe came out of the dining-room 
with a plate of brown bread, for Rose had been 
allowed no hot biscuit for tea. 

" I '11 relieve you of some of that." said Dr. 
Alec, and, helping himself to a generous slice, he 
retired to the study, leaving Phebe to wonder at 
his appetite. 

She would have wondered still more if she had 
seen him making that brown bread into neat little 
pills, which he packed into an attractive ivory box, 
out of which he emptied his own bits of loveage. 

" There ! if they insist on medicine, I '11 order 
these, and no harm will be done. I will have my 
own way, but I '11 keep the peace, if possible, and 
confess the joke when my experiment has suc- 
ceeded," he saictto himself, looking very much like 
a mischievous boy, as he went off with his innocent 

Rose was playing softly on the small organ that 
stood in the upper hall, so that Aunt Peace could 
enjoy it ; and all the while he talked with the old 
ladies, Uncle Alec was listening to the fitful music 
of the child, and thinking of another Rose who 
used to play for him. 

As the clock struck eight, he called out : 

" Time for my girl to be abed, else she wont be 
up early, and I 'm full of jolly plans for to-morrow. 
Come and see what I have found for you to begin 

(To be 

Rose ran in and listened with bright, attentu 
face, while Dr. Alec said, impressively : 

'■ In my wanderings over the face of the earth, 
have picked up some excellent remedies, and ; 
they are rather agreeable ones, I think you and 
will try them. This is an herb-pillow, given to rr 
by a wise old woman when I was ill in India. It 
filled with saffron, poppies and other soothir 
plants ; so lay your little head on it to-night, slee 
sweetly without a dream, and w^ake to-morrow wit] 
out a pain." 

" Shall I really ? How nice it smells." At 
Rose willingly received the pretty pillow, and stoc 
enjoying its faint, sweet odor, as she listened to tl 
Doctor's next remedy. 

" This is the cup I told you of. Its virtue d 
pends, they say, on the drinker filling it himsel 
so you must learn to milk. I '11 teach you." 

" I 'm afraid I never can," said Rose ; but si 
surveyed the cup with favor, for a funny little in 
danced on the handle, as if all ready to take 
header into the white sea below. 

" Don't you think she ought to have somethn 
more strengthening than milk, Alec ? I real 
shall feel anxious if she does not have a tonic 
some sort," said Aunt Plenty, eyeing the ns 
remedies suspiciously, for she had more faith 
her old-fashioned doses than all the magic cu 
and poppy pillows of the East. 

' ' Well, ma'am, I 'm willing to give her a pill, 
you think best. It is a very simple one. and ve 
large quantities may be taken without harm, if 
know hasheesh is the extract of hemp ? Well, tl 
is a preparation of corn and rye, much used in < 
times, and I hope it will be again." 

'•Dear me, how singular!" said Aunt Plem 
bringing her spectacles to bear upon the pills, % 
a face so full of respectful interest that it was almi 
too much for Dr. Alec's gravity. 

" Take one in the morning, and a good nigh, 
you, my dear," he said, dismissing his patient \v 
a hearty kiss. 

Then, as she vanished, he put both hands h 
his hair, exclaiming, with a comical mixture 
anxiety and amusement : 

" When I think what I have undertaken, I 
clare to you, aunt, I feel like running away and : 
coming back till Rose is eighteen !" 




21 I 


By William H. Rideing. 

The stranger in Charleston is sometimes startled 

l a long-drawn, plaintive cry that seems scarcely 

iman. On cold wintry mornings, when the city 

awaking, it is heard coming from the house-tops 

ith strange distinctness. It sounds like the voice 

some great bird hovering amid the curling 

>noke. " O weep, wee-e-ep, wee-e-e-ep, weep O ! " 

.nd it is repeated several times before one can find 

it whence it comes. The people of the city pass 

n without heeding it, and only those to whom it is 

; novelty pause to gaze over the wide 

jofs of slate and iron, in search of the 

iroat that utters it. Far above the 

treet can be seen a negro boy, with a 

Dund little head and a pair of narrow 

boulders, creeping out of a chimney 

'ito the sunlight, singing his wild song 

; 's he comes, and brandishing a black 

: irush with frantic energy. It is the 

'himney-sweep, and, as soon as his 

: iong is done, he descends again into 

ihe opening, like a genie disappearing 

n the flame of a wonderful lamp at the 

'call of his master, the magician. 

Later in the day, you may sec the 
'same little fellow again, moving about 
i imong ordinary mortals, but looking 
hill the more forlorn in contrast with 
die bright faces of the nicely dressed 
p people, who gather in their proud skirts 
' is they pass too near him on the street. 
~He looks more like an imp from some 
country beneath the earth, than a living 
tooy with warm blood coursing through 
"his veins. Nature made him black, 
and his occupation has deepened the 
shade. The soot is thick upon him — 
over his hands, neck, face and clothes, 
and deep in the roots of his crisp, curly 
hair. All the white about him is in his 
'rolling eye, which has a half-comical expression 
mingling with its queer pathos. Who would think 
of associating with him, I wonder, except another 
of his own sort ? He is an absolute outcast, and as 
he slouches along, beating the pavement with his 
brush, few pitying glances are cast upon him. But 
he has friends of his own, comrades in his sooty 
trade, who love his society dearly and welcome the 
appearance of his dim face with a glad smile. 

These three that you see in the picture are fellow- 
craftsmen of his, such as you may meet in Charles- 

ton any da)', though all are not so fat and happy 
Perhaps they wanted to honor the occasion of their 
visit to the photographer's, and banqueted and 
wiped their faces with their sleeves beforehand. 

Anthracite (or hard) coal makes little or no soot, 
and it is only where bituminous (or soft) coal is 
used that chimney-sweeps are needed. Soot, I 
must tell you furthermore, is simply condensed 
smoke, and is rich in valuable chemical substances. 
If it is allowed to accumulate, it is apt to take fire, 


and hence the necessity of keeping chimneys clear 
of it. 

In Pittsburgh, and all through the far W'est, the 
chimneys have to be swept twice a year ; but the 
sweeps do not ascend them. A stiff brush is thrust 
up instead, fastened to long poles, which fit into 
each other like the branches of a fishing-rod. The 
old custom was exceedingly cruel, and it has been 
done away with throughout America, except in 
Charleston and Philadelphia. A gentleman tells 
me that he saw an old man escorting some bov 




chimney-sweeps through the streets of the latter 
city very lately, and he believes they are there still. 
Twenty or thirty years ago, it was a common 
thing in New York to see mites of boys following 
fheir masters in the street, or issuing from the 
chimney-tops with their peculiar wail. Some of 
them were not more than ten years of age, and 
they looked so wretched that when a child was ill- ■ 
behaved its mother or nurse would threaten to give 
it to the chimney-sweeps. 

It was the worst use to which boys could be put. 
and was even more terrible in its results than coal- 
mining. The soft, fine 
powder suffocated many to 
death, and planted the 
seeds of consumption in 
others. I found in an old 
book, the other day, an 
account of a little sweep 
who was driven up a hot 
chimney by his brutal mas- 
ter. He cried out that he 
was burning, but continued 
to ascend, until he reached 
a point where the heat was 
so intense that he could go 
no farther. Nor could he 
descend. He was caught 
in a turn of the chimney, 
and was slowly suffocated. 
Just before he died, his 
employer called to him. 
and asked him, with an 
oath, what he was doing. 
"'All right, master," he 
answered faintly. "I am 
caught up here and can't 
get out ; but don't mind 
me. I 'm ready to die." 
When he was extricated, 
his body showed what he 
had endured, but his face 
gave no sign of suffering, 
was as a proof that 
had gone the entire 
of the chimney that 
veeps were required 
jtter their cry on reach- 

ing the top. The hard masters who depended or 
their earnings were much relieved when, after 
long silence, they heard the sad " weep ! weep! 
of their little slaves echoing over the roofs. 

In Germany and France, small boys are still em 
ployed in cleaning chimneys. In Great Britain ; 
law has been passed forbidding the practice ; bu 
less than fifteen years ago the sweeps, or "climb 
ing boys," were very numerous ; and I can remem 
ber seeing a bit of a lad crawling out of one of th< 
tallest chimneys in London, such as you see 
the picture on this page. 

Until the reign of James the First, the house: 
were built only one story high, and the chimney 
were swept from the floor. The Scotch fashion o 
multiplying the stories then came in, and twice o 
three times a year boys were sent up to sweep dowr 
the soot. 

There was once a famous highwayman who ha 
been a "climbing boy," and 1 think he was th 
only one of the tribe who ever became notorious 
At all events, we do not hear more about them ir 
history from the time of James the First until abou 
the middle of the last century, when Jonas Hanwa; 
called public attention to their condition. Han 
way. you must know, was one of the great philan 
thropists of his day, and was the man who firs 
carried an umbrella in London, a performano 
which exposed him to the jeers of all the impuden 
little bakers' and butchers' boys in the city. N< 
doubt he looked rather queer as he trotted alom 
in the rain with the new-fangled thing over hi: 
head, and some folks thought him utterly craz) 
But he was a wise and good man, living a life tha 
most of us might imitate to advantage. 

When a " climbing boy " came to his house, on 
day, Hanway was struck with the poor fellow' 
woful face, and asked him how and where h 
lived. The answers that were made excited th 
philanthropist's sympathy, and, through publi 
prints and the benevolent societies with which h 
was connected, he drew- attention to one of thi 
worst kinds of slavery that ever existed. Th 
"climbing boys" were mostly the children of dis 
solute parents, who sold them to the men chimne\ 
sweeps for a few sovereigns, or. in American monc; 
fifteen or twenty dollars. Little creatures, some o 
them girls, only five or six years of age, wer 

compelled to ascen' 
chimneys — and, ir 
deed, the smalk 
the child the mor 
valuable he or sh 
was, as some of th 
flues were less tha 
a foot square. Th 
traffic was so e 



2I 3 

;nsive that we wonder how the officers of the law 
ever came to hear of it. Children who wandered 
way from their homes often were kidnapped and 
irried to a remote part of the country, where the 
)bbers sold them into bondage. Their own 
lothes were taken from them, and some black rags 
',irown over them, so that when the soot was 
bread over their pretty little faces, no one could 
^cognize them. 

The novices had the greatest dread of ascending 
le chimney for the first time, and there are several 
istances, of undoubted truth, in which the little 
:llows were violently thrust in by their masters 
'nd driven up by a fire lighted under them. This 
2ems too horrible for belief, but it was sworn to 
y a master chimney-sweep before a committee of 
ae British House of Comrr^ns. The same man 
eclared that he did not use his own apprentices in 
hat manner, and that when the chimney was small 
.nd the boy hesitated about ascending, he simply 
' sed a stick or his fist ! 

Sometimes the beginner was instructed at the 
ouse of his master before real duty was required 
j| him. An older boy would follow him up a 
himney and teach him how to climb by pressing 
he knees and elbows against the sides of the flue, 
twas a most painful operation, and the skin would 
>e torn from the child's arms and feet before he 
tad nearly reached the top. By striving very hard 
ie would probably succeed, but not until he had 
umbled down several times and alighted on the 
houlders of his stouter companion, who always 
:ept himself firmly fixed in expectation of such a 
nishap. Every time he fell he had to begin anew, 
.nd, no matter how sore he was, his master forced 
lim to reach the top. 

The little chimney-sweeps of London were turned 
:>ut of their straw beds and driven into the streets 
'luring the earliest hours of the morning. No 
varm breakfast was supplied to them ; only a crust 
if stale bread. I remember reading in some book 
)f two whom its author saw standing at the gate 
>f a house at six o'clock one snowy morning. They 
sere barefooted and shivering, and in vain they 
'ang the bell to awake the occupants. The con- 
rast between their sable hue and the yet unruffled 
mow that mantled the city streets was a more 
Jathetic sight than the good author could endure. 
md he hurried away to his chambers, with tears in 
lis eyes, after bestowing a sixpenny bit on each of 
.hem. I have often seen like unfortunates in the 
itreets of Liverpool, and my heart has been filled 
vith pity for them. 

A story is told, that a very small boy, not more 
:han four years of age, was once sent up a chimney 
a a country-house at Bridlington, Yorkshire, and 
:hat he tumbled down and hurt himself so severely 

that the young ladies of the house took him from 
his master and nursed him themselves. Some food 
was brought to him, and, seeing a silver fork, he 
was quite delighted, exclaiming, " Papa had such 
forks as those." He also said that the carpet in 
the drawing-room was like "papa's," and, when a 
silver watch was shown to him, he declared that 
" papa's" was a gold one. At night he would not 
go to bed until he had said the Lord's Prayer, 
which he knew perfectly, and he lay awake for 
some hours comparing the furniture in the room to 
that in his own home. When he was asked how 
he came to leave his papa, he said that he was 
gathering flowers in his mother's garden, and that 



a woman came in and asked him if he liked riding. 
He said " yes," and she told him that he should 
ride with her. She put him on a horse in a lane 
near by, drove with him to the sea-side, and carried 
him on board a vessel. 

The story does not tell what became of the little 
fellow afterward, and we can only hope that he was 
restored to his parents, or that the young ladies at 
the country-house adopted him. 

The son of one of the noblest families in England 
was kidnapped by chimney-sweeps, and was re- 
stored to his home by an incident quite as romantic 
as any I have ever read of in novels. He was sold 
several times, and at last fell into the hands of a 




man who was engaged to clean the chimneys of the 
house next door to that where his parents lived. 
He ascended one of the flues and reached the roof; 
but in descending he got into the wrong opening, 
and soon arrived in a magnificent bed-chamber of 
the adjoining house. The white sheets, the pillows 
trimmed with lace, and the splendid damask cur- 
tains, brought irresistible sleep into his eyes, and 
he threw himself upon the bed, forgetful of his 
tyrant master and the punishment that might be in 
store for him. While he dreamed there in blissful 
peace, looking like a bit of ebony inlaid in satin- 
wood, the housekeeper entered the room, and 
recognized him as the lost child of her lady and 

During her life, his mother, the Honorable Mrs. 
Montague, celebrated each anniversary of his re- 
covery by a grand dinner of roast beef and plum- 
pudding, given to the "climbing boys" at her 
house in Portman Square. The little fellows were 
all well scrubbed and freshly dressed for the occa- 
sion, and each was presented with a shilling. But 
when she died the festival was no more observed, 
and the sweeps sadly missed her kind face and the 
annual dinner. 

"And is all pity for the poor sweeps fled. 
Since Montague is numbered with the dead ? 
She who did once the many sorrows weep, 
That met the wanderings of the woe-worn sweep ; 
Who, once a year, bade all his griefs depart. 
On May-day's morn would doubly cheer his heart. 
Washed was bis little form, his shirt was clean. 
On that one day his real face was seen ; 
His shoeless feet now boasted pumps — and new, 
The brush and shovel gayly held to view ! 
The table spread, his every sense was charmed. 
And every savory smell his bosom warmed : 
His light heart joyed to see such goodly cheer, 
And much he longed to see the mantling beer. 
His hunger o'er — the scene was little heaven ! 
If riches thus can bless, what blessings might be given. 
But she is gone ! None left to soothe their grief 
Or, once a year, bestow their meed of beef! " 

The organization of a society to suppress the use 
of " climbing boys " by master-sweeps was the re- 
sult of Hanway's efforts, and an instrument called 
the " Sandiscope," for cleaning high chimneys, was 

invented. The " Sandiscope " consisted of a larg 
brush made of a number of small whalebone sticks 
fastened into a round ball of wood. It was thrus 
up a chimney by means of hollow cylinders o 
tubes, with a long cord running through them 
and it was worked up and down as each joint wa 
added, until it reached the top. It was then short 
ened joint by joint, and again worked in a lik 
manner. The master-sweeps refused to use it 
however, and it was not until Parliament passed 
law in 1829 that the little slaves were emancipated 

There are considerably over a thousand sweep 
in London to-day, but they are all grown mei 
and women, and the little fellows are no longe 

I ought, in conclusion, to mention James White 
who was such another friend to the " climbin 
boys" as Mrs. Montague. Once a year, on St 
Bartholomew's Day, he gathered together all th 
sootkins in London, and treated them to a dinnei 
Charles Lamb, the gifted essayist, knew him an 
loved him, and I will end this account by quotin 
his exquisite description of the feast : 

" O, it was a pleasure to see the sable younkers lick in the unctuoi 
meat, with his (White's) more unctuous sayings ! How he would t 
the tit-bits to the puny mouths, reserving the lengthier links of sau 
ages for the seniors ! How he would intercept a morsel even in tl 
jaws of some young desperado, declaring it ' must to the pan agai 
to be browned, for it was not fit for a gentleman's eating ! ' How 1 
would recommend this slice of white bread, or that piece of kissin 
crust, to a tender juvenile, advising them all to have a care of cracl 
ing their teeth, which were their best patrimony 1 How genteelly 1 
would deal about the small ale, as if it were wine, naming the brewe 
and protesting, if it were not good, he should lose their custom ; wil 
a special recommendation to wipe the lips before drinking ! The 
we had our toasts — ' The King,' ( The Cloth,' and, for a crownin 
sentiment, ' May the brush supersede the laurel ! ' All these, an 
fifty other fancies, which were rather fcit than comprehended by h 
guests, would he utter, standing upon the tables, and prefacing ever 
sentiment with a ' Gentlemen, give me leave to propose so and so 
which was a prodigious comfort to these young orphans ; every no 
and then stuffing into his mouth (for it did not do to be squeamish < 
these occasions) indiscriminate pieces of those reeking sausage 
which pleased them mightily, and was the savoriest part, you ma 
believe, of the entertainment. 

"James White is extinct, and with him these suppers have Ion 
ceased. He carried away with him half the fun of the world when 1 
died— of my world, at least. His old clients look for him among tr 
pens; and, missing him, reproach the altered feast of St. Barthol 
mew, and the glory of Smithficld departed forever." 




By Mary W. Lincoln. 

The first king was Pharamond ; after him came 
The race Merovingian, unworthy of fame ; 

Then Pepin the Little, and Charlemagne, great ; 
Victorious, kingly in Church and in State. 

First Louis, Charles First, and then two Louis' more ; 
Charles ; Eudes. Count of Paris, whose reign was soon o'er ; 

Charles the Simple ; Raoul de Bourgoyne, rarely known, — 
One after another ascended the throne. 

Then Louis the Fourth, who was named " L'Outre Mer ; " 
Then Louis the Sluggard came : after, Lothaire. 

Hugh Capet, and Robert, and Henry then came; 
First Philip, two Louis', and Philip whose name 

Was Augustus ; then Louis the Lion, and one 
Called Louis the Saint, for the good he had done. 

Two Philips, tenth Louis, fifth Philip came on ; 

And then Charles the Fourth, the sixth Philip, and John ; 

Charles Fifth, Sixth and Seventh, when Joan d'Arc came 
To rescue the country from sorrow and shame. 

Then Louis Eleventh — perfidious king ; 

Charles Eighth, whose adventures let history sing ; 

Twelfth Louis, first Francis, and Henry then came ; 
Then Francis, whose wife is so well known to fame 

As Mary of Scotland ; Charles Ninth, on whose head 
Is the blood of Bartholomew's Protestant dead. 

Two Henrys, five Louis', — one, king but in name, 
For Terror was monarch till Bonaparte came. 

Then Louis Eighteenth, and Charles Tenth, the grandson 
Of Louis Fifteenth, but his reign was soon done. 

Then Louis Philippe, and Napoleon Third, 
Who, often successful, more frequently erred. 

The throne is now vacant, and no one can tell 
The name of the next, so I '11 bid you farewell. 




By Rebecca Harding Davis. 

[A raven, sitting high up on a limb, had a fine piece of cheese. He was just going to enjoy it, when along came Mr. Fox. Now 
fox wanted the cheese, and he knew he could not catch the raven. So he began to flatter the raven's croaking voice, and to beg 
raven for one of his "sweet songs." At last the poor raven, silly with flattery, opened his mouth to sing — when lo! the cheese drop 
to the ground, and off ran the wily fox with the stolen treasure in his mouth. The raven flew away, and never was heard of aga 

Donee was a king's daughter. She had heard 
her father talk of the battles into which he had led 
his mighty warriors, and of how all the world that 
she knew had once been his, from the hills behind 
which the sun rose to the broad rushing river 
where it set. Now all of this account was strictly 

But the king, as he talked, wore no clothes but a 
muddy pair of cotton trousers, and sat on a log in 
the sun, a pig rooting about his bare feet. Black 
Joe, going by, called him a lazy old red-skin ; and 
that was true, too. But these differing accounts 
naturally confused Donee's mind. When the old 
chief was dead, however, there was an end of all 
talk of his warriors or battles. A large part of the 
land was left, though; a long stretch of river bot- 
tom and forests, with but very little swamp. 
Donee's brother, Oostogah, when he was in a good 
humor, planted and hoed a field of corn (as he had 
no wife to do it for him), and with a little fish and 
game, they managed to find enough to eat. Oosto- 
gah and the little girl lived in a hut built of logs 
and mud, and, as the floor of it never had been 
scrubbed, the grass actually began to grow out of 

the dirt in the corners. There was a log smould 
ing on the hearth, where Donee baked cakes 
pounded corn and beans in the ashes, and on 
Other side of the dark room was the heap of stt 
where she slept. Besides this, there were 
hacked stumps of trees which served for chairs, i 
an iron pot out of which they ate ; and there j 
have the royal plenishing of that palace. 

All the other Indians had long ago gone W< 
Donee had nothing and nobody to play with, 
was as easily scared as a rabbit ; yet sometm 
when Oostogah was gone for days together, 
was so lonely that she would venture down throi 
the swamp to peep out at the water-mill and 
two or three houses which the white people 1 
built. The miller, of all the white people, was j 
one that she liked best to watch, he was so big ; 
round, and jolly ; and one day, when he had 
her in the path, he did not call her " Injun,'; 
• red nigger," as the others did, but had sal 
Where's your brother, my dear?" just as if | 
were white. She saw, sometimes, his two little 
and boy playing about the mill-door, and they vJ 
round and fat, and jolly, just like their father. 





\t last, one day Oostogah went down to the mill, 

i Donee plucked up her courage and followed 
" n. When she was there hiding close behind the 

ugh in which the horses were watered, so that 

oody could see her, she heard the miller say to 

■brother: "You ought to go to work to clear 

ir land, my lad. In two years there will be 
tndreds of people moving in here, and you own 

best part of the valley." 
Oostogah nodded. "The whole country once 

onged to my people." 

' That 's neither here nor there," said the miller. 

)ead chickens don't count for hatching. You 
•1 to work now and clear your land, and you can 
ji it for enough to give you and this little girl 
hind the trough an education. Enough to give 
Ik both a chance equal to any white children." 

Oostogah nodded again, but said nothing. He 
si shrewd enough, and could work, too, when he 
jjs in the humor. "Come, Donee," he said. 

3ut the miller's little Thad. and Jenny had found 
■nee behind the trough, and the three were mak- 

■ a nettle basket together, and were very well 

[uainted already. 

■' Let the child stay till you come back from fish- 
/, Oostogah," said the miller. 

00 Donee staid all the afternoon. Jenny and 
cty rolled and shouted, and could not talk fast 
nugh with delight because they had this new 
lie girl to play with, and Thad. climbed all the 

2s, as Jenny said, to "show off," and Betty 
ibled into the trough head oxer heels and was 
en out dripping. 
Donee was very quiet, but it was to her as if the 

1 of the world had come, all this was so happy 
ill wonderful. She never had had any body to 

y with before. 

Then, when Betty was carried in to be dried and 

ssed, there was, too, the bright, cheerful room, 

h a lovely blue carpet on the floor, and a white 

ead on the bed with fringe, and red dahlias 

t shone in the sun, putting their heads in at the 
i.dow. Betty's mother did not scold when she 

k her wet clothes off, but said some funny things 

ich made them laugh. She looked at Donee 
fy and then, standing with her little hands clasped 

und her back. 

;' Does your mother never wash or dress you, 

nee ? " said Betty. 

' She is dead," said Donee. 
. ietty's mother did not say any more funny things 

:r that. When she had finished dressing Betty, 
1 he tying of her shoes, she called the little Indian 

. up to her. 

' What can you do ? " she said. " Sew ? Make 

ccasins ? " 

ihe had the pleasantest voice Donee was not 

Vol. II.— 15. 

at all afraid. " I can sew. I can make baskets," 
she said. " I am going to make a basket for every 
one of you." 

" Very well. You can have a tea-party, Jenny, 
out of doors." Then she opened a cupboard. 
"Here are the dishes," taking out a little box. 
"And bread, jam, milk, sugar, and candy." 

"Candy!" cried Betty, rushing out to tell 

"Candy? Hooray!" shouted Thad. 

For there are no shops out in that wild country 
where a boy can run for a stick of lemon or gum- 
drops every time he gets a penny. It was very 
seldom that Thad. or Betty could have a taste of 
those red and white "bull's eyes" which their 
mother now took out of the jar in the locked cup- 
board. They knew she brought it out to please 
the little Indian girl, whose own mother was dead. 

Jenny set the table for the tea-party under a big 
oak. There was a flat place on one of the round 
roots that rose out of the moss, which was the very 
thing for a table. So there she spread the little 
white and gold plates and cups and saucers, with 
the meat dish (every bit as large as your hand), in 
the middle, full of candy. The milk, of course, was 
put in the pot for coffee, and set on three dead 
leaves to boil ; and Jenny allowed Donee to fill the 
jam dishes herself, with her own hands. Donee 
could hardly get her breath as she did it. 

When they were all ready they sat down. The 
sun shone, and the wind was blowing, and the 
water of the mill-race flashed and gurgled as it 
went by, and a song-sparrow perched himself on 
the fence close to them and sang, and sang, just as 
if he knew what was going on. 

" He wants to come to the party ! " said Betty, 
and then they all laughed. Donee laughed too. 

The shining plates just fitted into the moss, and 
there was a little pitcher, the round-bellied part of 
which was covered with sand, while the handle and 
top were, Jenny said, of solid gold; that was put in 
the middle of all. 

Donee did not think it was like fairy-land or 
heaven, because she had never in her life heard 
of fairy-land or heaven. She had never seen any 
thing but her own filthy hut, with its iron pot and 
wooden spoons. 

When it was all over, the children's mother 
(Donee felt as if she was her mother too) called her 
in, and took out of that same cupboard a roll of the 
loveliest red calico. 

"Now, Donee," she said, "if you can make 
yourself a dress of this I will give you this box," 
and she opened a box, just like Jenny's. Inside, 
packed in thin slips of paper, was a set of dishes ! 
pure white, with the tiniest rose-bud in the middle 
of each ! cups, saucers, meat-dish, coffee-pot, and 



[ Februai 

all; and, below all, a pitcher, with sand on the 
brown bottom, but the top and handle of solid 

Donee went back to the hut, trotting along be- 
side Oostogah, her roll of calico under her arm. 
The next day she cut it out into a slip and began to 
sew. Oostogah was at work all day cutting down 
dead trees. When he came in at night, Donee said : 
" If you sold the land for much money, could we 
have a home like the miller's ? " 

Oostogah was as much astonished as if a chicken 
had asked him a question, but he said " Yes." 

"Would I be like Jenny and Betty?" 

" You're a chief's daughter," grunted Oostogah. 

One day in the next week she went down to the 
river far in the woods, and took a bath, combing 
her long straight black hair down her shoulders. 
Then she put on her new dress, and went down to 
the miller's house. It was all very quiet, for the 
children were not there, but their mother came to 
the door. She laughed out loud with pleasure 
when she saw Donee. The red dress was just the 
right color for her to wear with her dark skin and 
black hair. Her eyes were soft and shy, and her 
bare feet and arms (like most Indian women's) 
pretty enough to be copied in marble. 

"You are a good child — you're a very good 
child ! Here are the dishes. I wish the children 
were at home. Sit right' down on the step now 
and eat a piece of pie." 

But Donee could not eat the pie, her heart was 
so full. 

" Hillo ! " called the miller, when he saw her. 
"Why, what a nice girl you are to-day, Dony ! 
Your brother 's hard at work, eh ? It will all come 
right, then." 

Donee stood around for a longtime, afraid to say 
what she wanted. 

" What is it?" asked the miller's wife. 

Donee managed to whisper, if she were to have a 
party the next day, could the children come to 
it? and their mother said: "Certainly, in the 

When the little girl ran down the hill, the miller 
said : "Seems as if 't would be easy to make Chris- 
tians out of them two." 

" I 'm going to do what I can for Donee," said 
the miller's wife. 

It was not so easy for the little red-skinned girl to 
have a party, for she had neither jam nor bread, 
nor butter, not to mention candy. But she was up 
very early the next morning, and made tiny little 
cakes of corn, no bigger than your thumb-nail, and 
she went to a hollow tree she knew of and got a 
cupful of honey, and brought some red haws, and 
heaps of nuts, hickory and chestnuts. When 
Oostogah had gone, she set out her little dishes 

under a big oak, and dressed herself in her love 
frock, though she knew the party could not beg 
for hours and hours: The brown cakes and hone 
and scarlet haws, were in the white dishes, and t 
gold pitcher, with a big purple flower; was in 
middle. Donee sat down and looked at it all. 
a year or two Oostogah would build a house li 
the miller's, and she should have a blue carpet 
the floor, and a white bed, and wear red froc 
every day, like Betty. 

Just then she heard voices talking. Oostog 
had come back ; he sat upon a log ; and the trads 
who came around once a year, stood beside him 
pack open at his feet. It was this peddler, Hav 
who was talking. 

" I tell you, Oostogy, the miller's a fool. Thei 
no new settlers coming here, and nobody war 
your land. Ther's hundreds and thousands 
acres beyond better than this. You 'd better ta 
my offer. Look at that suit ! " 

He held up short trousers of blue cloth work 
with colored porcupine quills, and a scarlet man 
glittering with beads and gold fringe. 

" I don't want it," grunted Oostogah. " Sell r 
land for big pile money." 

" Oh, very well. / don't want to buy your lap 
There 's thousands of acres to be had for the askir 
but there 's not such a dress as that in the Unit 
States. I had that dress made on purpose for yc 
Oostogy. I said : ' Make me a dress for the 
of a great chief. The handsomest man'" (eyei 
the lad from head to foot) " ' that lives this side 
the great water.' " 

Oostogah grunted, but his eyes began to spark 

" Here now, Oostogy, just try it on to pie; 
me. I 'd like to see you dressed like a chief 

Oostogah, nothing loth, dropped his di 
blanket, and was soon rigged in the glitter 
finery, while Hawk nodded in rapt admiration. 

" There 's not a man in the country, red-skin 
pale-face, but would know you for the son of 
great Denomah. Go look down in the ere 

Oostogah went, and came back, walking m 
slowly. He began to take off the mantle. 

"There's a deputation from these North 
tribes going this winter to see the Great Fatl| 
at Washington. If Oostogah had a proper d 
he could go. But shall the son of Denon 
come before the Great Father in a torn ho 
blanket ? " 

" Your words are too many," said Oostogah. 
have made up my mind. I will sell you the h 
for the clothes." 

Donee came up then, and stood directly bet 
him, looking up at him. But she said nothing. 



iOt the habit of Indian women and children to 
ik concerning matters of importance, 
'ostogah pushed her out of the way, and, with 
trader, went into the hut to finish their 
a an hour or two her brother came to Donee. 

had his new clothes in a pack on his back, 
ome," he said, pointing beyond the great river 
he dark woods. 

We will come back here again, Oostogah?" 

No; we will never come back." 
(onee went to the tree and looked down at the 
ty she had made ; at the little dishes with the 

on each. But she did not lift one of them up. 
took off her pretty dress and laid it beside 
ai, and, going to the hut, put on her old rags 
in. Then she came out and followed her brother, 
ise face was turned toward the great dark woods 
he west. 

yhen the miller's children came to the party 
: afternoon, a pig was lying on Donee's red 
>s, and the dishes were scattered and broken. 

the hut was empty. 

* * * * * * 

l year afterward, the miller came back from a 
I journey. 

his wife and little ones, he said: " You remember, 
wife, how Hawk cheated that poor Indian lad out 
of his land?" 

" Yes; I always said it was the old story of the 
fox and the foolish raven over again." 

'■ It was the old story of the white and the red 
man over again. But out in an Indian village I 
found Donee sick and starving." 

The miller's wife jumped to her feet. The tears 
rushed to her eyes. "What did you do? What 
did you do ? " 

" Well, there was n't but one thing to do, and I 
did that." He went out to the wagon and carried 
in the little Indian girl, and laid her on the bed. 

"Poor child! Poor child! Where is Oosto- 
gah ? " 

The miller shook his head. "Don't ask any 
questions about him. The raven flew away to the 
woods, and was never heard of again. Better if 
that were the end of Oostogah." 

Donee, opening her tired eyes, saw the blue 
carpet and the white bed where she lay, and the 
red dahlias shining in the sun and looking in at 
the window, and beside her were the children, and 
the children's mother smiling down on her with 
tears in her eyes. 


2 20 



By C. P. C ranch. 

I was sitting one night by my fire — 
'T was a fire of Westmoreland coal 

With a mixture of coke, which I recommend 
As a comfort for body and soul. 

My chamber was cosey and warm ; 

The curtains were closed all around ; 
And the snow at the windows rattled away 

With a soft and tinkling sound. 

As I sat in my easy chair, 

I think it had got to be late ; 
And over the top of my book I saw 

A face in the glowing grate. 

An ugly old face, too, it was — 
With wings and a tail — I declare ; 

And the rest was ashes, and smoke, and flame, 
And ended — I don't know where. 

So odd were the features, I said 
" I must put you on paper, my friend ; " 
And took my pen and jotted him down — 
Face, wings, and wriggling end. 

A queer old codger he seemed, 
As vaguely he stared and shone ; 

But I fixed him in outline as well as I coul 
And added a touch of my own. 

He flapped his wings in the grate, 
And struggled and puffed to be free, 

And scowled with his blazing carbuncle eye 
As if he appealed to me. 

Then I said — but perhaps I dreamed — 
"Old fellow — how came you there ? " 
"I'm not an old fellow" — the face replied, 
"But a prisoned Imp of the air. 

"In the shape of combustion and gas 
My wings I begin to find out; 
So I flap at the bars and grow red in the fa 
And am ugly enough, no doubt. 

"I am made for a much better lot; 
But I cannot escape, as you see : 
Blistered and burnt, and crammed in a grate 
What could you expect of me ? 



"I once was a spirit of air. 
A delicate fairy page 
Long, long ago — in fact before 
The carboniferous age. 

•'For centuries I was kept 

Imprisoned in coal-beds fast. 
When you kindled your fire this evening, 
you see, 
I thought I was free at last. 

"But it seems I am still to wait; 
No wonder I 'm cross as a bear. 

Make faces, and flutter my wings of flame, 

"My ruby-faced friend," I said, 
''If you really wish to be free, 
Perhaps I can give you a lift or two. 
It's easy enough. We'll see." 

Then, taking the poker, I punched 

A hole in the half-burnt mass — 
When the fire leaped -up, and the Imp 
flew off 


By Lucretia P. Hale. 

• was very difficult for the Peterkin family to 
de where to go. 

\rs. Peterkin did not want to go to the sea- 
re, as she was a little afraid of the sea. 
lizabeth Eliza had no desire to go to the mount- 
It tires you so to go up," said Mrs. Peterkin. 
I suppose one sees a great deal," said Mr. 

I don't know," said Elizabeth Eliza, who had 
1 up Sundown Hill, "because, on the way up, 
r back is to the view all the time." 
li I know it," said Solomon John; "and when 
i are on top of the hill, you are too high up to 
anything. You can't tell whether they are men 
loys. " 

And when you come down," continued Eliza- 
'i Eliza, " you have to be looking at your feet all 
time, to see where you are treading ; so you 
't get any view." 

I I want to go where we shall really see some- 
ig," said Mr. Peterkin. 

f I should like to go up some of the burning 
jntains," said Agamemnon; "volcanoes, — I 
e read of them, — like Mount .Etna. I should 
: to go up one of those." 
.'' I should rather come down," said Mrs. Peter- 

' The ground is so hot," continued Agamem- 
., " that you can roast eggs in it." 
1 That would be jolly," cried the little boys. 
j 1 It must make it inexpensive for fuel," said Mr. 

" I suppose the inhabitants don't have to take in 
coal," said Mrs. Peterkin. 

" Let's go," cried the little boys. 

" Only our India-rubber boots would stick," said 
one of them. 

" But then the inhabitants get buried up now 
and then," said Elizabeth Eliza. 

'" Oh, that was a great while ago," said Agamem- 
non. "You know I read about their being dug 

" Still, I should not like to be buried up," said 
Mrs. Peterkin, " even if I were dug oat." 

"I suppose, by this time," said Mr. Peterkin, 
" the top of the mountain must have pretty much 
all come down, all there is to come down — so many 
years ! " 

" It must be the mountain that came down to 
Mahomet," said Solomon John. " Somebody told 
me about his not being able to go to it, so it came 
to him." 

" I would not like to go among the Mahom- 
etans," said Mrs. Peterkin. 

"Certainly not to the deserts of Arabia !" ex- 
claimed Elizabeth Eliza. 

The little boys would like to see the "Arabian 

" I don't think we want to journey as far as 
that," said Mr. Peterkin. 

Agamemnon was annoyed. The family did not 
understand. These volcanoes were not so far off as 
Arabia. Still, they were over the sea. and they 
would hardly care to travel so far. 

" Yet I think we want to see something more 



than merely to go into the country," said Elizabeth 

Solomon John had been sitting in quiet for some 

'•What is it, Solomon John?" said Mr. Peter- 
kin. " You have an idea " 

"Yes," said Solomon John, starting up and 
walking across the room, in excitement. " Why 
should not we go to — Philadelphia?" 

" And see the place that the lady from Philadel- 
phia came from," exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza. 

" She is so wise," said Mrs. Peterkin ; " she has 
had such opportunities." 

" Let us go to-morrow ; don't wait for the vaca- 
tion," cried the little boys, in delight. 

'"It would be a very poor time to go now," said 
Mrs. Peterkin, ''when the only person we should 
know, the lady from Philadelphia, is here." 

" She could tell us how to go," said Solomon 

"It is very hot in Philadelphia in summer, I 
have heard," said Mr. Peterkin. 

"That is why she comes away," said Elizabeth 

" It would be a pity to go when everybody is 
away," said Agamemnon. 

" Everybody away ! " exclaimed the little boys. 
"What fun! Then we could go into the shops 
and take what we wanted ! " 

"Don't be absurd." said Solomon John; "of 
course, the policemen stay." 

" Why should not we go later?" said Agamem- 

"Why not wait till the fall?" said Mr. Peterkin. 

" We ought to go in the little boys' vacation." 
said Mrs. Peterkin. 

The little boys thought this was no matter : they 
could do something else in the vacation. 

" But, then, it would not be a summer journey," 
said Mrs. Peterkin. 

But Elizabeth Eliza felt this was not a s< 

" We might wait till the Centennial," suggest 
Agamemnon. Mrs. Peterkin was firm against th 

" No, 1 am old enough now," she said, 
were to wait till I 'm a hundred, I should n't enj 
anything ! " 

" There must be enough to see there now. 
Mr. Peterkin. 

" Benjamin Franklin came from Philadelphia, 
else he went to it," said Agamemnon. 

" Oh yes, I know all about him," said Solom 
John ; "he made paint-brushes of his cat's tail 

" Oh no, that was another Benjamin, I am prel 
sure," said Agamemnon. 

" I don't know about that," said Solomon Joh 
"but he became a famous artist, and painted 
King and Oueen of England." 

" You must have mixed up the Benjamins," 
Agamemnon. " I will go and borrow an encyc 
pedia, and look them out." 

" And we will make paint-brushes out of Eli 
beth Eliza's cat," exclaimed the little boys ; 
we will become famous, and paint the King a 
Queen of England." 

" You must not use the whole cat," said Solom 
John ; " and there is no King of England now. 

" And I cannot spare her tail," cried Elizabi 
Eliza, starting up in agony for her cat. 

"It is only Philadelphia cats that are used 
paint-brushes," said Mr. Peterkin. "We will 
about it when we go. I think it is a good plan 
wait till autumn, and it will give us time to 
with the lady from Philadelphia and consult 
about it." 

The little boys were quite satisfied. "A va 
tion and a journey too ! " It was raining a litt 
but they put on their India-rubber boots, and w 
out to chase some ducks from a neighboring m 


By E. S. F. 

Said the teacher to Ann : " I wish, if you can, 
You would give a more definite answer." 

And Ann at once said, with a toss of her head : 

'" I do just the best that I can, sir! 

But why should I try ? do please tell me why 
(I think it's no use — not a particle), 

For I hear every day the grammar-class say 
That An's an ///-definite article!" 





By Isabel Francis. 

N a large forest, once upon a 
time, grew a clump of birch- 
trees ; noble great trees they 
were, and everybody felt sorry 
when some woodmen were sent 
to cut them down. Down they 
must come, though, for the 
men had their orders, and or- 
ders must be obeyed, or there 
is no getting along in this 
world. Thwack, thwack went 
the bright steel axes, and the 
trees came crashing to the 
ground until there was only 
one left standing. He was the 
handsomest of all, and report 
said that he was the great, 
great, great-grandfather of all 
"^^^Cr^ g the others. Dear me, how he 

did groan and crack when the 
men went to work, chopping, 
tearing and pulling him, till 
at last he fell to the earth with 
1 noise like thunder. His bark was beautiful, fine, 
pft and flexible, and looked so much more valuable 
aan the rest after it was torn off, that they placed 
: in a little heap by itself. It was now quite late, 
I nd the men went away, not to return till the next 
lorning but one, for the day following would be a 

It rained in the night, and in the morning the 
"Irops glistened on the forlorn little pile of bark, 
naking it look as if it were weeping at the sight of 
he great tree it had always shielded from wind and 
torm by its close and loving embrace, lying shorn 
if its graceful limbs, stripped, and soaked with the 

Toward evening a party of young men passed 
through the forest on their way home from the 
festival. Their ages might range from sixteen to 
nineteen years, — mere boys, you will say ; but they 
tnew better, for could they not drink their glass of 
wine with any man ? They made the quiet forest 
resound with their boisterous shouts and ill-man- 
nered jokes, and when one of them made a remark 
which the others considered especially brilliant, 
they slapped him on the back and cried, "■ Good ! 
good ! One can easily see that you are a man of 
the world." 

There was one little fellow in particular, the 
youngest of the party, who wore his first long-tailed 

coat, and in consequence talked faster and louder, 
and told more silly stories than any of his compan- 
ions. It was to his foolishness we owe this story ; 
for on perceiving the birch-bark shiping in the soft 
afternoon light, he exclaimed : 

" Oho ! let us make a birch-bark boy ! " 

" What? " said the rest, who had heard of snow- 
men before, but never of birch-bark boys. 

"I'll show you," answered this naughty boy; 
and without stopping to consider whether he had 
any right to meddle with the bark, he took a long, 
narrow strip of it, pinned it together so that it 
somewhat resembled a short stove-pipe, formed 
another in the same way, set them up upon two 
smaller rolls laid on the ground for feet, and the 
birch-bark boy was half done. He then doubled a 
large square piece, fastening it with long thorns, 
pins not being strong enough to hold, and after 
cutting two holes in the side, in which he placed 
two cylinders of bark for arms, he finished by set- 
ting a good-sized India-rubber football on top for a 
head, and chalking marks for eyes, nose and 
mouth. There stood the birch-bark boy, sure 
enough, and a frightful-looking object he was ; his 
round white eyes and the long, grinning line of 
his mouth made him a very ghastly sight to come 
upon suddenly at night. Just then a rustling was 
heard in the bushes near them, and the boys, 
alarmed at being caught in such mischief, took to 
their heels as fast as they could, leaving their best 
football behind them (which, by the way, was of a 
beautiful light brown color, not unlike the birch- 
bark itself) staring into the night with its great 
round eyes. The noise proved to be only a rabbit, 
hopping about in search of tender leaves for a 
dinner-party he intended to give; but "the wicked 
flee when no man pursueth." 

There the birch-boy stood leaning against a tree, 
glaring at nothing ; and had not something very 
strange happened in the night the boys would have 
come the next day and taken their football, and 
the workmen would have pulled his body to pieces. 

As it was, however, they did come, and were 
furious at finding nothing there ; not the faintest 
vestige of the boy was to be seen far or near. The 
workmen scolded about the loss of their bark, but 
the boys had to hold their tongues concerning the 
thing they wanted. They knew it served them 
right to lose their precious ball, though they liked 
it none the better for that. 

This is what happened in the night. 




About that time there were a great many souls 
of babies to be carried to the earth ; a great many 
more than you can think or dream of; and the 
angels that have this charge were consequently 
very busy. This night in particular there were so 
many that the angel who has the chief care of all 
the cunning little spirits thought he never would 
be able to get them all down in time. So he looked 
around for help, and espied a new-comer standing 
by, gazing at him with great interest. The new 
angel looked as if he must have been very good 
indeed when he was on earth, for he had such 
a lovely face. So the chief angel called to him, 
and asked if he would be willing to carry an ex- 
ceedingly nice little soul to the castle at the end of 
the forest. The new-comer replied that he would 
be delighted to do so ; and away he flew with his 
precious burden. 

Now the chief angel was so busy that he had not 
time to give the other very explicit directions, and 
he therefore alighted at the wrong end of the forest, 
where there was nothing but dry waste land, with 
no houses far or near. So the angel wandered 
into the forest, looking in vain for any sign of life, 
until he came to where the moonlight glanced 
through the leaves upon the head of the birch- 
bark boy. 

Now whether the angel never had any babies of 
his own when he lived on earth, or whether he was 
a Chinese angel and thought everybody was of a 
dirty yellow color, I don't know ; I only know that 
he said: "Ah! they have sent him out to meet 

So with these words he allowed the soul to become 
gradually absorbed into the poor birch-bark body 
till it was all gone, and then flew back again, never 
dreaming what mischief he had done. 

The soul expanded and expanded to fill the un- 
usually large body in which it found itself, till it 
was about like the soul of a good-sized boy, and 
then the poor fellow tried to move ; but he was 
stiff, of course, not having any knees or elbows. 
Just try to walk without bending your knees, chil- 
dren, and you will know with what a hop, skip and 
a jump our birch-bark boy moved. The only 
comfort he had was that he was so light that the 
least breath of air would waft him anywhere like a 
feather, and he could easily keep himself down by 
rolling a stone up his hollow arm. 

I cannot begin to tell you his adventures for 
some years after he came to life ; so, suffice it to say 
that he was very unhappy, and longed with all his 
might to be like other boys who could bend their 
knees and run and jump and laugh. One day 
when he felt even more melancholy than usual, 
lying on the grass in the very forest where he was 
made, wishing he had eyes were they only to weep 

with, an old woman stood suddenly before him 
and said : 

' ' Are you a goblin ? " 

He had often been taken for a goblin before, ant 
the question did not surprise him, so he answeret 
meekly : 

''No, ma'am; I only wish I were." 

You will be surprised to learn that he coulc 
answer at all, but there was a small hole in th 
football near where the boy had drawn his mouth 
and though I think no one but a fairy could ha\ 
understood him, the old woman did well enough 
because she was one, as perhaps you have guessedi 
To ordinary ears his voice sounded something like 
that of a dog, of course, for was he not made ot 
bark ? 

" What do you mean by such a wish as that ? 
asked the old woman sternly. And our poor boy, 
too delighted at being understood and talked to ai 
all to notice her severity, answered : 

'■ Because I wish I were anything else than the 
thing I am. I would do anything in the world tc 
get rid of this hateful birch-bark bod)', which pre 
vents my walking and running, and makes othei 
children afraid of me, and oh ! I 'm so unhappy ; 
and please, ma'am, you are the only one who eve: 
understood what I say, and can't you help me t( 
turn into a real boy, or else let me die here ? ' 
And the poor fellow was so affected that a sort o 
dampness spread all over him, which was the besl 
he could do in the way of tears. 

'•I," said the old woman, "am a fairy, and to helj 
you is precisely the reason I am here ; and I havt 
been moved to do this, not only because you art 
so wretched, but because I think you are a ver; 
good boy indeed, and will make a very good man 
I cannot, however, do much for you," continuet 
she, raising her hand as she saw he was about t< 
interrupt her (and you all know, children, how 
dreadful it is to interrupt older people when the\j 
are talking); "you will have to help yourself 
Listen to these words: When you make yourself 
as useful in the world as if you had a body lik- 
other boys, you will receive your reward. " 

With these words she vanished in a white mist 
leaving the boy stunned with astonishment, and 
even more in despair than before, for did not even 
one fly at his approach, and how could he be usefu 
to them if they did that? However, being a brave 
little soul, he finally rose, and for a week went from 
place to place trying to get near enough to any on 
to see if he could be of any use. But he was afrak 
of grown men and women ; and the children al 
ran shrieking to their mothers whenever they sav 
him coming. One cheering thing he observet 
though, which was that if people would only los' 
their fear of him, it would be very easy indeed U 




: as useful as most of the boys he saw, and he 
ought it very strange that big boys who were 
nost men should consider it necessary to pull 
eir sisters' hair, or break their dolls' heads, or 
inp out of dark places suddenly to frighten them, 
do a hundred other teasing things well known to 
ffering girls. 

One day he was sitting disconsolately on the sea- 
[ore, when he heard a faint cry. When I say 
ard, I do not mean heard as you hear, for you 

only come and save her." And from appearances 
it was highly probable that she never would. How 
pretty she was, with her golden curls all tossed and 
tumbled by the wind, her great blue eyes filled with 
tears, and her dear little underlip quivering ! 

The dreadful danger that she was in touched the 
heart of our boy deeply, or rather the place where 
his heart ought to be, and yet "If it had been any- 
thing but this," the poor fellow thought. 

I have not told you the sad fact that water was 

now he did n't have any real ears, but the birch- 

; ark was 30 thin that his soul understood things 

"BH felt them in a mysterious way, without his 

nowing exactly how. At any rate I will use plain 

.nguage and say that he heard a faint cry, and 

loking up saw a small row-boat slowly gliding past 

ikn out to sea, with no one in it but a little girl. 

he it was who had uttered the cry. Poor little 

' ling ! There she was drifting out to the wide 

1 cean all alone, and crying piteously, and saying, 

etween her sobs, that she "never, never would 

•in away to play in a boat again if some one would 


death to him. To get wet would indeed put a stop 
to all his hopes of ever being like other boys, for 
the dampness would penetrate through and through 
him, and he would then flatten and come apart. 
At one time he would not have cared, but now 
when his hopes were raised so high, could he dash 
them to the ground with one ruthless blow? More- 
over, it was exceedingly painful to him, or he would 
have been tempted long ago to stand out in a hard 
shower and thus put an end to his wearisome ex- 
istence. Then it was more than probable that his 
labor would be useless, for he would be wet through 




before he reached her, and even if he were not, 
how could he be of any assistance ? He hesitated, 
looked, and hesitated again, when he heard a sob, 
fainter than any before. A plan occurred to him, 
by which he thought he might possibly save her, 
and he sprang to his feet resolved to do and die. 

" Her life is worth more than mine ever could 
be," he sighed ; and instantly he began what looked, 
like a species of gymnastic exercises in the air. 
The wind was blowing directly toward the sea, and 
he wanted to go inland, but he had learned to reg- 
ulate his singularly formed body in such a manner 
that he could go in whatever direction he wished 
with the greatest rapidity, no matter from what 
quarter the wind blew. I don't pretend to know 
how he did it, but I suppose it was upon something 
the same principle as a schooner tacking. At all 
events he was at a store in the town in less than 
five seconds ; all the people screamed, and tumbled 
over one another in their eagerness to get out of 
the way, but he, unheeding them, rolled a ball of 
strong twine up his arm with great dexterity, and 
sped away till he reached the boat, now quite a 
distance from land. The poor little girl shrieked 
with horror when she perceived him, which sent a 
pang through him, but he quietly dropped the ball 
of twine into the boat, and tried to tie the end of it 
to the ring in the bow. I do not know how many 
hours it would have taken him to accomplish this, 
or even if he could have succeeded at all, had not 
the little girl, whose name was Mabel, seen what 
he was endeavoring to do, and taking heart, tied 
the string quickly in a strong, hard knot. After 
this he had little difficulty in making her under- 
stand also that the other end was to be fastened 
round his body. Now began the " tug of war," 
for how was this poor little weak boy to tow a row- 
boat to land, over heavy swells, and with the wind 
. dead against him ? How he did do it he never 
knew, but his strength just lasted long enough to 
reach one of the huge piles of an unfinished wharf, 
to fly several times round it in order to secure the 
boat, and he fell, fainting, into the water. He felt 
himself slowly flattening, but before he quite lost 
consciousness he heard the voices of the men who 
were carrying home little Mabel. 

He did n't die, though ; of course he did n't ; but 
was washed ashore, where he had a peaceful sleep, 
and awoke with the most singular sensation of 
weighing four or five hundred pounds. He thought 
too he heard a voice say : 

" Because you hesitated, the deed was not com- 
plete ; therefore the cure cannot be complete. But 
cheer up ! You have done nobly, and in due time 
shall receive your reward." 

He roused himself on hearing these words in 
order to see who spoke, but he could perceive 

nothing save a white mist in the distance, whic 
vanished immediately ; and was it he who hear 
those words, or another boy — a real boy — who we 
sitting on the beach, gazing around in astonist 
ment ? No ; it was himself, for there was his ski 
of birch-bark, only much softer and more delicat 
than before, stretched over as handsome and a 
solid a body as you would care to see. He coul 
still hear and see a little by the same mysteriot 
method I spoke of, but he was perfectly dumb ; nc 
a sound could he utter. The most remarkable c 
all was that he was dressed in a full suit of clothes 
very nice clothes they were too, and so our bo 
thought till he discovered one defect that the fair 
(not being used to boys) thought he would not pei 
ceive. There was not a sign of a pocket anywhet 
about them. I don't know how he found out thi 
fatal fact so soon, for, never having been able t 
wear any clothes before, naturally one might suf 
pose that he would not feel the want of pockets s 
keenly as boys who have had them all their live: 
He seemed to know all about them, however, b 
instinct, and it would have melted a heart of ston 
to see him sitting mournfully on the beach, clappin 
his hands first to one side of his trousers and the 
to the other, and searching in all parts of his jacke 
and vest, once even looking up his sleeve to fin 
some traces of the catch-alls, without which it woul 
hardly seem necessary for boys to have clothes ; 
all. The kind fairy knew too much, however, t 
risk his life for a few moments' gratification; ft 
she had read in the newspapers what things g 
into boys' pockets, and knew that a huge jack-knil 
is the first requisite. Now if this boy's skin, bein 
yet made of birch-bark, should be cut by acciden 
no matter how slightly, it never would heal, an 
she wished to avoid all accidents of that kind. Sh 
accordingly provided him with a little cottage ju: 
outside the town, and at meal-times a nice breal 
fast, dinner or supper, as the case might be, w; 
set before him. I am grieved to say that he w< 
obliged to eat with his fingers, his guardian n< 
even allowing him to use a table-knife lest it shou] 
slip and cut him. He learned better afterwan 

He soon became accustomed to his new mode c 
life, and often wandered round the town in searc 
of some one to whom he could render assistance 
also he wanted to see little Mabel again. Day aftt 
day passed, and though he stared at the people i 
the carriages and on the sidewalks, in stores an 
in houses, he did not see her. He had a pretl 
hard time of it besides. The rude boys in th 
streets hooted at him, and called him " Heathe 
Chinee" and "Mummy," and asked him " Wh 
tanned him last ? " 

All these remarks made him feel very unhapp; 



id discouraged him very much ; and one day 
'hen he had been treated worse than usual, having 
ad a narrow escape from a sharp stone thrown at 
im, he sat down in his little house the picture of 
espair. As he was gloomily looking out of the 
dndow at the setting sun slowly sinking behind 
le dark hills, he thought he discerned a faint light 
jddening the sky in another direction. He as- 
ended to the roof to see what it meant, and 
erceived that a large house in the heart of the 
awn was on fire. This made him still more mel- 
ncholy than before, for any approach to flame 
iracked his brittle skin in a hundred places, so that 
he fairy had even to heat his cottage by steam. 
■ " Alas ! " cried he, " I might be of some use 
tow, if it were not for my unfortunate skin. I will 
;o, though, and watch for my chance, and perhaps 
may be able to assist the sufferers after they are 
■emoved from the scorching heat." 

So he went into the town, and followed the crowd 
)f people, hustling and jostling one another, all 
•unning in one direction, not more than half of 
:hem knowing why or where they were going. 

Our boy found that as soon as he came near 
enough to the fire to feel the heat, his skin began to 
'.crack, and to become exceedingly painful; so he 
ensconced himself on the top of a high building, 
behind a damp blanket, where he could see every- 
thing that went on, without being near enough 
to injure himself. The fire raged furiously, but 
though it was impossible to save the burning man- 
sion, the surrounding houses stood in no danger, 
as they were separated by a small park. It was 
now quite late, and would have been very dark 
were it not for the glare of the flames, darting up- 
ward like gigantic tongues, roaring, and making 
the very air around to sing with the intense heat. 
One part of the building was nearly burned, and 
with a crash the side wall fell to the ground ; but 
what was it that sent such a thrill through the heart 
of the boy, making him start to his feet, with every 
nerve quivering beneath his brown skin ? Nothing 
but the shrill shriek of a child sounding distinctly 
above the din of falling walls and the rush of the 
flames. He had heard that voice before, and if it 
was Mabel within those burning ruins, crying for 
help, she must be saved. 

Taking no thought of his own peril, he dashed 
out into the street and straight toward the flaming 
house like a whirlwind. Over the red-hot em- 
bers he flew, suffering the most frightful tortures, 
only thinking of Mabel and hoping to be able to 
reach her before he died. She was in a part of the 
house that had caught last, and was now standing 
at the window before a wild background of flames, 
calling for help with all the energy of mortal terror. 
Her father was miles away, arid knew nothing of 

the fire. Her poor mother, who had supposed her 
to be at the house of a friend, was running back- 
ward and forward, wringing her hands and offering 
enormous rewards to any one who would venture 
to save her darling. Just at that moment there 
appeared another form in the casement. A cry of 
hope resounded through the crowd as our boy un- 
rolled a coil of rope he had snatched from one of 
the firemen as he passed. It was the work of a 
moment to fasten it securely around Mabel's body, 
and prepare to lower her to the ground, which was 
fortunately quite free from embers directly under 
the window. A man rushed forward to receive her, 
and our boy, with supernatural strength, lowered 
her gently till she was in the arms of the man, who 
lifted her high in the air, amid the shouts and 
applause of the crowd. The applause, however, 
soon changed to groans, for hardly had the child 
been restored to the embraces of her mother when 
the whole interior of the house in the part where 
our hero was standing gave way with a frightful 
crash, and, with one whirr-r-r bang, this world was 
over for the birch-bark boy. 

The next morning the father returned to town, 
and found his home in ruins. But he soon placed 
Mabel and her mother in comfortable rooms, where 
they could stay until their new home could be made 
ready. Hardly had the little family assembled 
when the door-bell rang. An old woman wished 
to see them on important business. They were all 
three rather surprised when they saw their strange- 
looking visitor; but having been brought up in the 
best manner, they did not manifest their astonish- 
ment by either look or word until the old woman 
said : 

" Would you not like to see the boy that saved 
your little girl's life ? " 

" Indeed we would," exclaimed all three together. 
"But we thought he was killed and buried in the 
ruins. How is he ? Where is he ? Who found 

" But is he really alive? " cried little Mabel, her 
blue eyes dilating. "Ah! no, he cannot be ; he 
must be dead, and you are cruel to come here and 
tell stories. " And with these words her tears and 
sobs broke forth afresh. 

"Hush, Mabel!" said her mother quickly, for 
something in the old woman's look or manner im- 
pressed her she could hardly tell how, though she 
did not know their visitor was a fairy. 

"Never mind, n-e-v-e-r mind." answered the fairy 
soothingly. " I like her the better for being fond 
of the boy who twice preserved her life ; but I can 
assure you he is alive and well, as you shall see for 
yourself if you will come to the cottage just outside 
the town at three o'clock this afternoon. I saved 
him from the fire myself, for I am his guardian." 




With these words she vanished in a mist, leaving 
them in a state of astonishment not to be de- 

Our story is all told, as much as any story can 
be told. Of course Mabel and her parents went to 
the cottage outside of the town ; of course they 
found there a beautiful youth, — birch-bark boy no 
longer, but as fine a young fellow as one could wish . 
to see, — who recognized Mabel at once, and gladly 

accepted the father and mother, who said he mus 
go home with them and be Mabel's brother. And 
of course, they all were happy as could be to tin 
very end of their lives. 

But our boy, for some strange reason, though hi 
could talk, and leap and romp like any other younj 
fellow, never liked to go alone to the forest, and t< 
his dying day he always shuddered when he heart 
the old proverb, " His bark is worse than his bite, 


By Olive Thorne. 

Darling Rosabel came from the rag-bag. 

From the rag-bag ! you don't see how anything 
nice can come from such a place, do you say ? 

I fear you '11 be shocked when I tell you that not 
only Rosabel, who is a " perfectly lovely " wax 
doll, but your own most precious dolly, if she 's 
anything better than china, probably came out of 
the same dreadful place. 

To be sure her head, neck, hands and feet are 
all of wax outside, and as only this covering shows, 
she is just as good and as pretty as though she 
were wax all through ; and you know the old say- 
ing that "beauty is but skin deep." But, never- 
theless, she did come out of the rag-bag, and I '11 
tell you all about it. while she sits there on the 
sofa, elegantly dressed, and looking as lovely as 
though she never even heard of such things as 

The true story of her life, since she was first 
created, would be very interesting ; but it would 
make a big book, and I can't tell you half of it. 

A new doll, did you say ? Well, I know she has 
not lived long in her present shape, but you must 
remember that she was not always a doll ; she was 
once wrapped up in a green bud, growing on a 
bush. She came out of that a long white bit of 
cotton, went through ever so many processes, and 
became cotton cloth of some kind; was bought 
and sold, and made up, and used, washed and 
ironed, and worn out as cloth, just to begin with. 
Think of all that probably happened to her before 
she even became rags ! 

That was only the beginning. After being worn- 
out rags she went into the rag-bag or the alley, 
made a journey on the back of a rag-man, went 
through a dreadful course of soaking and washing, 
and boiling, and bleaching, and pressing, and dry- 

ing, and ever so much else, before she came outl 
nice clean paper, ready for use again. Did you| 
suspect your dolly had ever been paper? 

Well, she was paper once, and who can tell whatl 
may have been her life while in that state, whether I 
she was beautiful note-paper and carried loving! 


messages from one friend to another, or whether 
she was used for business writing, or for wrapping 
up confectioners' dainties, or whether she was made 
into a book or not, or did good or harm. She 'U 
never open her lips to tell of her past life ; but you 
may be sure she was put to some use as paper, and 




suld tell strange stories of what she has seen, if 
ae could only remember — and talk. 
You see she 's very old, older than any of you, 


and I don't think it 's respectful to old age to treat 
her as some of you do. I hope you '11 mend your 
manners toward her, now that you know about her 
age and dignity. 

When the paper of which she is made was old 
and soiled, and unfit for use, 
it was taken to a doll manu- 
factory, in the little city of 
Sonneburg, near the north- 
I ern border of Bavaria, and 
: there it went through the 
operations that made it into 
this pretty doll. I can show 
you, as well as tell you about 
it, for here are some sketches 
taken for St. Nicholas in 
one of those very factories. 

The first thing, of course, 
1 is to make that mass of paper 
into a clean pulp, and we '11 
leave it boiling away in a big 
kettle, while we see what the 
doll-makers are doing, to get 
ready to use it. First they 
must have a model of Miss 
Dolly's head. A model, you 
know, is a figure made of the 
exact size and shape of the head, for a pattern. 

Now look at the picture on page 228. The man 
is making a model. You see he has a narrow work- 
bench which he can make higher or lower, or even 

turn around if he wishes. From a lump of soft 
clay, he has cut and shaped a doll's head and 
neck, and in another lump of clay near him, you 
see he has stuck his 
spare knives. When 
the model is finished, 
the modeler makes 
lines on it, with color- 
ed crayons, as a guide 
to the next workman, 
who is called a molder. 
When the pattern, 
or model, is ready, 
there must be made 
a mold, in which to 
shape the paper pulp 
from the kettle. This 
is made by the molder. 
He takes the pretty 
clay model, when it is 
dry and hard, and lays 
it face up, in a dish of 
wet clay, pressing the 
clay into every corner 
up to the colored line 
which the modeler 
made. This being done, he builds a wall of 
clay around the mass, coming up some inches 
higher all around than the face of the model, which 
is left uncovered. The whole looks like a box half 
full of clay, with a face looking out of it. In the 


upper picture on this page, you see one man hold- 
ing the clay walls together, while the other one pours 
over the face some melted sulphur which he has 
taken from the stove. Sometimes plaster of Paris 




Is used instead of sulphur, but it is not thought 
to be so good. 

The mold is not done yet. The clay was put on 
merely to protect that part of the head while the 
rest was molded. When the sulphur is cold, the 
box is turned over, and the clay taken away, leav- 
ing Miss Rosabel with her face buried in sulphur. 
It 's well she cannot smell : the vis- 
itors to the room who ca?t, do not 
care to stay long. 

Clay walls are again built up, and 
more sulphur is poured in to make 
a mold for the back of her head. 
The boxes on the floor in the pict- 
ure are molds, as they look when 
done, and the open one shows you 
the two separate sides. 

Now the mold is finished, and we 
must go back to our paper pulp, 
-which we left boiling, you know. 
When soft and ready for use the 
water is squeezed out, and other 
things added — some powdered clay 
to make it stiff, and a little glue to 
make it sticky. These are worked 
up together till the mass is about like 
dough, and indeed it is made into 
loaves, as you see in the third picture. 

The loaves are on the floor, under the table, and 
the man with the rolling-pin is rolling out the 
paper dough — papier mache it is called — for the 
other man to shape. He makes it a little thicker 
than pie crust, and then cuts it into pieces the 
right size for use, making a pile of them, with flour 
or powdered clay between to prevent their sticking 

The man next to him is pressing one of these 
thin cakes of paper dough into the molds for 
Dolly's head, and the third man is making it fit 
more nicely into every crack and corner of the 
mold, with a tool of some sort, so that it will be a 
perfect copy of the original model. You see they 
are smoking. That is because they have to keep 
the room very hot so that the heads will dry quickly, 
and the heat makes the workmen so sleepy that 
they smoke to keep themselves awake. 

See the half heads laid out to dry on the table, 
and the finished heads on the shelves behind the 

But to go on, when the man has carefully fitted 
the sheet of dough into every part of the mold, he 
pares off the edges with a knife as you see a cook 
cut the crust from a pie plate, lifts the half head 
out of the mold, and lays it on the table to dry a 
little. When dry enough it is again pressed in the 
mold to give it a more perfect shape, and then is 
dried for the last time. The two halves being 

finished, they are glued together, and Miss Rosa- 
bel for the first time takes an upright position on a 
shelf, where she stands till she is hard and dry, look- 
ing more like stiff pasteboard than anything else. 
Miss Dolly is not very pretty in that state, 1 
must admit. She is of a dingy gray color, with no 
eyes and no hair. However, she is not yet finished. 


Her next journey is to the eye-setter. A rough 
doctor he is, and the first thing he does is to cut 
off the top of her head, by running a sharp knife 
around it, and knocking the piece out with a ham- 

What for? Merely to put in her eyes, my dear; 
and a curious operation it is, too. If they were 
immovable eyes, like a common doll's, they would 
be simply glued in ; but in a young lady of Miss 
Rosabel's pretensions, who meekly shuts her eyes 
when her mamma lays her down, there is much to 
be done. 

In the first place, the eyes themselves, life-like 
as possible, have been carefully made of glass, in a 
large factory which turns out nothing but eyes. 
These the eye-setter now fastens to a piece of curved 
wire with a ball of lead on the end. It is the weight 
of this lead which makes her eyes close when her 
head goes down. Then the workman, with a sharp 
knife, cuts a hole for each eye, and goes on to put 
them in. I can't explain exactly how he makes 
them all secure, but there is plaster to hold them 
in place, and support the cheeks ; a cork, or 
sponge, to keep the lead from hitting her chin ; 
pieces of wood to prevent her head from being 
easily crushed, and various arrangements by means 
of which the whole is made firm and strong, and 
able to endure the hard knocks she may expect, in 
the rough life before her. 



vVhen everything is in, the cut-off slice of her 
id is glued on again, and Miss Rosabel has re- 
ved all the furnishing for the inside of her head, 
it she will ever have. If your poor doll ever is so 
fortunate as to break her head, you can look in 
"d see all this machinery, if you like. 
:Now the inside is finished, the next thing is to 
t on her lovely complexion. 

First must be removed any roughness, such as 
s of glue at the seams of her head. 
Women now go to work on Miss Rosabel's head, 
you see in the picture on the opposite page. 
le of them is filing the roughness off, and the 
ler is giving it a coat of ruddy flesh-colored 
lint, from the top of the head to the ends of the 
oulders. Dolls who have hair made of the same 
aterial as their heads, like bisque and china dolls, 
.ve the hair varnished black, but Rosabel has real 
.ir, so she is colored alike all over. A frightful- 
Dking object she is, too, with color enough for a 
liled lobster. 

When she has received her color, and got dry, 
lich she does under the hands of these rather 
ur-looking women, she proceeds to the next 
jerator, who is the waxer. You see him below. 
In the kettle is boiling clear white beeswax, and 

one giving her a thin coat of wax, and toning down 
her flaming complexion into the delicate pink 
which you see. The reason she was painted so 
red, you know, is that she may have the proper 
tint when the wax is on. 

I should have told you before that her hands and 
feet were made in the same way as her head, 
molded, and painted, and waxed. 

In this picture you see the bodies of cloth or 
leather. They are made by families outside of the 
factory, and brought in all ready for the heads. 
Can your dolly cry? Rosabel can, and therefore 
her body is stuffed with ha)-, because sawdust, the 
usual stuffing, would get into her crying machine, 
and make her dumb forever after. To give her a 
voice, you must know, she has a sort of a bellows- 
like arrangement, such as you have seen attached 
to a toy cat, which when pressed would mew. 

These parts are all made and put together out- 
side of the factory and the finished bodies brought 
in. And now comes the next process, which is 
coloring her face. You thought she had color 
enough. Well, she has her flesh tint, but her lips 
are white and she has no eyebrows, nor lashes, 
and no brighter cheeks than firebrands, which will 
never do. She must go to the painting room. 


nto it you see Miss Dolly has been dipped, and is 
>eing held up to drain. If she had been intended 
or a cheap doll, she would have received but one 
lip, but being destined to belong to the aristocracy 
)f the doll world, she received several dips, each 

On the next page you will see one of the workmen 
in this room. 

In this room is a long table with several work- 
men, each of whom does only one thing. The 
first one paints Miss Dolly's lips, and sets her down 






on the other side of him. The next one takes her 
up and puts on her eyebrows. The third colors 
her cheeks. The fourth pencils her eyelashes, and 
so she goes on down the table, growing prettier at 
every step. 

But she has yet no hair. Now Rosabel has a 
regular wig, made of real hair on a 
foundation of lace, and glued on, but 
many of the dolls in the factory have 
locks made of fine wool, which look 
like real hair. This wool is braided 
up tight, and boiled to make it stay 
wavy. It is curled over a glass tube, 
and glued to the head curl by curl, 
whether long or short. If it is yel- 
.low, it is the natural color of the 
wool ; if any other color, it has been 

Here is a picture of girls arranging 
the hair, and you see they seem 
to enjoy the work. Sometimes the 
hair is elaborately braided, and done 
up in style. I dare say you have 
seen it put around in a droll German 
coil, and held by tiny hair-pins. 
Generally, however, it is preferred in 
curls or loose waves. 

Now the head is done ; and how 
many people do you suppose have 
had a hand in bringing it from the 
paper pulp to the present state ? You 
can't tell ? Not less than thirty-eight, 
each one of whom never does but one 
thing, and thus becomes very skillful. 

But though the head is finished, Miss Rosabel 
not yet out of the factory. She must have he 
head, as well as her hands and feet, glued fast t 
her body ; and then — last but by no means least- 
she must have a wardrobe. Cheap dolls hav 
merely one garment, loosely stitched together by 
machine at the rate of about two cents a dozer 
But our dolly was sent to a regular dolls' dres: 
maker, and clothed from head to foot in a ver 
pretty suit. Of course it is not in style now, for 
was made several months ago, you must know. 

The last picture shows the dolls going to th 
warerooms. You see how neatly they are packe 
in the basket cradle, and carried between two girl: 
In the warehouse Miss Rosabel was surrounded b 
hundreds and thousands of fellow dolls, many o 
them made in the same mold with herself, and a 
like her as twin sisters could be. 

I have read of one of those warehouses, wher 
twelve rooms were filled with dolls, of all sizes fron 
one inch long to two feet high. One room wa 
entirely filled with wooden-jointed dolls, an incl 
and a-half long, piled in a loose heap from floor ti 
ceiling, and another room contained nothing bu 
dolls' heads. There were millions of dolls in tha 
one house. 

You wish you could go there ? It would be in 
teresting to you. It looks very droll to see a car 
going through the streets filled with dolls' legs 





• instance, each one with clean white stocking 

d bright slipper painted on. 
j'One wholesale house in that town buys thirty 

ousand of the inch and a-half babies every week 
; e year round. For my part, I should think a few 
'ars of such work would nearly pave our streets 
'»th wooden dolls. A smart worker can make 

enty dozen of this size in a day. 

Would n't it be funny to live where almost the 

ily business carried on is toy-making ? Where 

own up men and women spend their whole lives 
inventing, improving, and making dolls that 

there I found her last winter, on the day before 
Christmas, and brought her home to a little girl 
that I know. 

I 'm obliged to confess, before I finish, that 
Rosabel and others made in that factory are not 
the very nicest dolls made. There is the genuine 
wax doll, whose head is of wax all through, and 
whose curls, and eyebrows, and eyelashes are of real 
hairs, put into the head one by one. Such a doll, 
with her wardrobe, costs several hundred dollars, 
and is too nice to play with, though very pretty to 
look at. No doubt, you little city maids have seen 


Jk, and turn their heads, and shut their eyes, and 
'eep, and walk, besides engines that run, and 
Drses that draw a load, and steamboats that go — 

million of dollars' worth in a year, and all to 
xiuse the great army of little folks in the world ? 
I The children who live in that fairy land, how- 
7er, care very little for toys ; the poor little crea- 
ires are all workers. When very young they 
egin to learn to make some one toy, or part of a 
>y, and they spend their whole lives at it. The 
ay is small, and every one of the family must 

But to go back to Rosabel. From that ware- 
ouse she was packed in a box and sent on a sea 
oyage. Arrived in America, she was once more 
irought to light, set up in a shop window, and 

them, with their beautiful trunks full of clothes, 
dresses of all sorts, shoes, gloves, parasols, jewelry, 
pocket handkerchiefs, brushes and combs, and 
nearly everything a grown lady needs in her trunk. 

Do you wish you had one ? Well, my dear, let 
me tell you a secret ; you would n't enjoy it half so 
much as you do dolls you can play with, and dress 
and attend to yourself. They are puppets, — not 

The other dolls in your play-house, the bisque 
and china, are made in the same way as Rosabel, 
only the dough is of clay instead of paper pulp, 
and the heads are baked to make them hard. 

So your pretty bisque dolls are made of mud, 
and your wax ones came from the rag-bag. Is n't 
it wonderful what changes go on in the world ? 

Vol. II.— 16. 




By J. T. Trowbridge. 

Chapter V. 


JACK'S first thought, after assuring himself that 
his horse was irrevocably gone, was to run for help 
to the line of settlements on the other side of the 
grove, where some means of pursuit might be ob- 
tained. » 

He knew that the road which Mr. Wiggett had 
described could not be much beyond the hollow 
where his wagon was ; and, dashing forward, he 
soon found it. Then, stopping to give a last 
despairing look at the billowy line of prairie over 
which his horse had disappeared, he started to run 
through the woods. 

He had not gone far when he heard a cow-bell 
rattle, and the voice of a boy shouting. He paused 
to take breath and listen ; and presently with a 
crashing of bushes three or four horned cattle came 
pushing their way through the undergrowth, into 
the open road, followed by a lad without a jacket, 
with one suspender and a long switch. 

" Boy," Jack cried, " how far is it to the nearest 

"Our house is jest down through the woods 
here," replied the boy, stopping to stare. 

"How far is that?" 

"Not quite so far as it is to Peakslow's house." 

"Where is Peakslow's house?" 

" Next house to ours, down the river." 

Seeing that this line of questions was not likely 
to lead to anything very satisfactory, Jack asked : 

"Can I get a horse of anybody in your neigh- 
borhood. — a good fast horse to ride?" 

The boy whipped a bush with his switch, and 
replied : 

" There aint any good horses around here, 'thout 
't is Peakslow's ; but one of his has got the spring- 
halt, and t' other 's got the blind staggers ; and 
he 's too mean to lend his horses ; and, besides, he 
went to Chicago with 'em both this morning." 

Jack did not stop to question the probability of a 
span thus afflicted being driven on so long a 
journey ; but asked if Mr. Wiggett had horses. 

" No — yes. I believe his horses are all oxen," 
replied the boy; "not very fast or good to ride, 

Thereupon Jack, losing all patience, cried out : 

" Is n't there a decent nag to be had in this 
region ? " 


" Who said there was n't ? " retorted the boy. 

" Where is there one ? " 

" We Ye got one." 

"A horse?" 

" No ; a mare." 

" Why did n't you tell me before ? " 

"'Cause you asked for horses; you didn't 
anything about mares." 

" Is she good to ride ? " 

"Pretty good. — though if you make her 
much faster 'n she takes a notion to, she 's got 
heaves so folks '11 think there 's a small volca 
coming ! " 

" How fast will she go?" 

" As fast as a good slow walk ; that 's her style 
said the boy, and whipped the bushes. " Bu 
come to think, father 's away from home, a^ 
you '11 have to wait till to-morrow night before yc 
can see him, and get him to let you take her." 

" Boy," said Jack, tired of the lad's tone of levit 
and thinking to interest him by a statement of t 
facts in the case, " I Ye been hunting, and a rasca 
trusted with my horse has run off with him, anc 
have a harness and a buggy and a couple of de 
deer out there on the prairie. " 

" Deer? " echoed the lad, pricking up his ears 
once. " Did you shoot 'em ? Where ? Can I 
and see 'em ? " 

Jack was beginning to see the hopelessness 
pursuing the horse-thief that night, or with ai 
help to be had in that region ; and he now turn 
his thoughts to getting the buggy home. 

" Yes, boy; come with me," he said. 

The boy shouted and switched his stick at t 
cattle browsing by the wayside, and started the 
on a smart trot down the road, then hastened wi 
Jack to the spot where the wagon and game h 
been left, guarded by Lion. 

But Jack had another object in view than simp 
to gratify the lad's curiosity. 

" If you will hold up the shafts and pull a littl 
I '11 push behind, and we can take the bug) 
through the woods. After we get it up out of tr 
hollow, and well into the road, it will be down-h 
the rest of the way." 

"You want to make a horse of me, do ye ? " i 
the boy. " I was n't born in a stable ! " 

" Neither was I," said Jack. " But I don't o 
ject to doing a horse's work. I '11 pull in 




" good ! " screamed the boy, making his switch 
aistle about his head. "And I '11 get on the seat 
id drive ! " And he made a spring at the wagon. 
But Lion had something to say about that, 
aving been placed on guard, and not yet relieved, 
: would permit no hand but his master's to touch 
lything in his charge. A frightful growl made 
e boy recoil and go backward over the dead deer. 
"Here, Lion! down with you !" cried Jack, as 
e excited dog was pouncing on the supposed in- 
The boy scrambled to his feet, and was starting 

run away, in great terror, when 
ck, fearing to lose him, called out : 
"Don't run! He may chase you 
you do. Now he knows you are 
y friend, you are safe, only stay 
lere you are." 

"Blast his pictur' ! " exclaimed the 
iy. "He's a perfect cannibal! 
'hat does anybody want to keep 
ch a savage critter as that for ? " 
" I had told him to watch. Now 
i is all right. Come ! " 
"Me? Travel with that dog? I 
)uld n't go with him," the boy de- 
ired, meaning to make the strongest 
issible statement, "if 'twas a mil- 
m miles, and you 'd fill the road with 
gar-candy all the way ! " And he 
.eked off warily. 

Jack got over the difficulty by send- 
g the dog on before ; and finally, 
' an offer of money, which would 
irehase a reasonable amount of 
gar-candy, — enough to pave the 
ort road to happiness, for a boy of 
irteen, — induced him to help lift 
e deer into the buggy, and then to 
i behind and push. 
They had hard work at first, get- 
lg the wagon up out of the hollow ; and the boy, 
ten they reached at last the top of the hill, and 
jpped to rest, declared that there was n't half the 
n in it there was in going a-fishing; the justice 
which remark Jack did not question. But after 
at the way was comparatively easy ; and with 
ck pulling in the shafts, his new acquaintance 
ishing in the rear, and Lion trotting on before, 
e buggy went rattling down the woodland road 
lively fashion. 

Chapter VI. 

"lord betterson's." 

On a sort of headland jutting out from the high 
nber region into the low prairie of the river bot- 

tom, stood a house, known far and near as " Lord 
Betterson's." or, as it was sometimes derisively 
called, " Lord Betterson's Castle," the hou? being 
about as much a castle as the owner was a lord. 

The main road of the settlement ran between it 
and the woods ; while on the side of the river, the 
land swept down in a lovely slope to the valley, 
which flowed away in a wider and more magnificent 
stream of living green. It was really a fine site, 
shaded by five or six young oaks left standing in 
the spacious door-yard. 

The trouble was, that the house had been pro- 


jected on somewhat too grand a scale for the time 
and country, and, what was worse, for the owner's 
resources. He had never been able to finish it ; 
and now its weather-browned clapboards, unpainted 
front pillars, and general shabby, ill-kept appear- 
ance set off the style of architecture in a way to make 
beholders smile. 

"Lord Betterson took a bigger mouthful than 
he could swaller, when he sot out to build his 
castle here," said his neighbor, Peakslow. 

The proprietor's name — it may as well be ex- 
plained — was Elisha Lord Betterson. It was thus 
he always wrote it, in a large round hand, with a 
bold flourish. Now the common people never will 
submit to call a man Elisha. The furthest they 
can possibly go will be 'Lisha, or 'Lishy ; and, ten 




to one, the tendency to monosyllables will result in 
'Li's/ie. There had been a feeble attempt among 
the vulgar to familiarize the public mind with 'Lzs/ie 
Betterson ; but the name would not stick to a 
person of so much dignity of character. It was 
useless to argue that his dignity was mere pompos- 
ity ; or that a man who, in building a fine house, 
broke down before he got the priming on, was un- 
worthy of respect ; still no one could look at himi 
or call up his image, and say, conscientiously, 
'"Lishe Betterson." He who, in this unsettled 
state of things, taking a hint from the middle name, 
pronounced boldly aloud, " Lord Betterson," 
was a public benefactor. "Lord Betterson" and 
"Lord Betterson's Castle" had been popular ever 

The house, with its door-posts of unpainted pine, 
darkly soiled by the contact of unwashed childish 
hands, and its unfinished rooms, some of them 
lathed, but unplastered (showing just the point at 
which the owner's resources failed), looked even 
more shabby within than without. 

This may have been partly because the house- 
keeper was sick. She must have been sick, if that 
was she, the pale, drooping figure, sitting wrapped 
in an old red shawl, that summer afternoon. She 
looked not only sick, but exceedingly discouraged. 
And no wonder. 

At her right hand was an empty cradle ; and she 
held a puny infant in her arms, trying to still its 
cries. At her left was a lounge, on which lay the 
helpless form of an invalid child, a girl about eleven 
years old. The room was comfortless. An old, 
high-colored piece of carpeting half covered the 
rough floor ; its originally gaudy pattern, out of 
which all but the red had faded, bearing witness to 
some past stage of family gentility, and serving to 
set off the surrounding wretchedness. 

Tipped back in a chair against the rough and 
broken laths, his knees as high as his chin, was a 
big, slovenly boy of about seventeen, looking lazily 
out from under an old, ragged hat-rim, pushed over 
his eyes. Another big, slovenly boy, a year or two 
younger, sat on the door-step, whittling quite as 
much for his own amusement as for that of a little 
five-year-old ragamuffin outside. 

Not much comfort for the poor woman and the 
sick girl shone from these two indifferent faces. 
Indeed the only ray of good cheer visible in that 
disorderly room gleamed from the bright eyes of 
a little girl not more than nine or ten years old, — 
so small, in truth, that she had to stand on a stool 
by the table, where she was washing a pan of 

" O boys ! " said the woman in a feeble, complain- 
ing tone, "do, one of you, go to the spring and 
bring some fresh water for your poor, sick sister." 

"It's Rufe's turn to go for water," said the be 
on the door-step. 

"'Taint my turn, either," muttered the be 
tipped back against the laths. " Besides, I 've g| 
to milk the cow soon as Link brings the catt 
home. Hear the bell yet, Wad?" 

"Never mind, Cecie ! " cried the little disi 
washer, cheerily. " I '11 bring you some water : 
soon as I have done these dishes." 

And, holding her wet hands behind her, si 
ran to give the young invalid a kiss in the mea: 

Cecie returned a warm smile of love and thank 
and said she was in no hurry. Then the chil 
stopping only to give a bright look and a pleasa 
word to the baby, ran back to her dishes. 

" I should think you would be ashamed, you t\i 
great boys!" said the woman, "to sit round t] 
house and let that child, Lilian, wait upon you, g 
your suppers, wash your dishes, and then go to t. 
spring for water for your poor suffering sister ! " 

"I'm going to petition the Legislature," sa 
Wad, " to have that spring moved up into o 
back yard ; it 's too far to go for water. The 
come the cattle, Rufe." 

" Tell Chokie to go and head 'em into the bar 
yard," yawned Rufe, from his chair. "I wond 
nobody ever invented a milking machine. Wis! 
had one. Just turn a crank, you know." 

" You '11 be wanting a machine to breathe wit 
next," said the little dish-washer. 

" Y-a-as," drawled Rufe. " I think a breathi 
machine would be popular in this family. CI' 
dren cry for it. Get me the milk-pail, Lill ; thai 
a nice girl ! " 

"Do get it yourself, Rufus," said the moth 
" You '11 want your little sister to milk for yc 

" I think it belongs to girls to milk," said Ru 
"There's Sal Wiggett, — aint she smart at 
though ? She can milk your head off ! Is tha 
wagon coming, Wad ? " 

"Yes!" cried Wad, jumping to his feet m 
unusual alacrity. "A wagon without a horse 
fellow pulling in the shafts, and Link pushing 
hind ; coming right into the front yard ! " 

Rufe also started up at this announcement, 3 
went to the door. 

" Hallo ! " he said, " had a break-down ? Wh;B 
that in the hind part of your wagon ? Deer ! a dfl 
and a fawn ! Where did you shoot 'em ? Wherl 
your horse ?" 

" Look out, Rufe ! " screamed the small tl 
from behind, rushing forward. "Touch one I 
these deer, and the dog '11 have ye ! We 've I 
two deer, but we 've lost our horse, — scamp nfl 
him away, — and we want " 



" We do, do we ? " interrupted Wad, mockingly. 
How many deer did you shoot, Link ? " 
" Well, I helped get the buggy over, anyway ! 
id that 's the savagest dog ever was ! And — say ! 
11 mother let us take the old mare to drive over 
North Mills this evening?" 

Chapter VII. 


FOR an answer to this question, the person most 

terested in it, who had as yet said least, was 

own into the house. Rufe and Wad and Link 

d little Chokie came crowding in after him, all 

ger to hear him talk of the adventure. 

" And, O ma I " cried Link, after Jack had briefly 

Id his story, "he says he will give us the fawn, 

.d pay me besides, if I will go with him to-night, 

.d bring back the old mare in the morning." 

"I don't know," said the woman, wrapping her 

d shawl more closely about her, to conceal from 

e stranger her untidy attire. " I suppose, if Mr. 

:tterson was at home he would let you take the 

ire. But you know, Lincoln," — turning with a 

proachful look to the small boy, — " you have 

■ver been brought up to take money for little 

rvices. Such things are not becoming in a family 

:e ours." 

And in the midst of her distress, she put on a 

mplacent smirk, straightened her emaciated form 

d sat there, looking like the very ghost of pride, 

■apped in an old red shawl. 

" Did you speak of Mr. Betterson ? " Jack in- 

ired, interested. 

" That is my husband's name." 

"Elisha L. Betterson?" 

"Certainly. You know my husband ? He be- 

lgs to the Philadelphia Bettersons — a very 

:althy and influential family," said the woman, 

th a simper. "Very wealthy and influential." 

"I have heard of your husband," said Jack. 

If I am not mistaken, you are Mrs. Caroline 

itterson — a sister of Vinnie Dalton, sometimes 

lied Vinnie Presbit." 

" You know my sister Lavinia ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
itterson, surprised, but not overjoyed. "And 
u know Mr. Presbit's people ? " 

"1 have never seen them," replied Jack, "but 
almost feel as if I had, I have heard so much 
out them. I was with Vinnie's foster-brother, 
:orge Greenwood, in New York, last summer, 
len he was sick, and she went down to take care 


" And I presume," returned Mrs. Betterson, 
king another reef in her shawl, " that you heard 
•r tell a good deal about us ; things that would 
1 doubt tend to prejudice a stranger; though 

if all the truth was known, she would n't feel 
so hard toward us as I have reason to think she 

Jack hastened to say that he had never heard 
Vinnie speak unkindly of her sister. 

" You are very polite to say so," said Mrs. Better- 
son, rocking the cradle, in which the baby had 
been placed. " But I know just what she has said. 
She has told you that after I married Mr. Betterson 
I felt above my family ; and that when her mother 
died (she was not my mother, you know, — we are 
only half-sisters), I suffered her to be taken and 
brought up by the Presbits, when I ought to have 
taken her and been as a mother to her, — she was 
so much younger than I. She is even younger by 
a month or two than my oldest son ; and we have 
joked a good deal about his having an aunt younger 
than he is." 

"Yes," spoke up Rufe, standing in the door; 
"and I've asked a hundred times why we don't 
ever hear from her, or write to her, or have her 
visit us. Other folks have their aunts come and 
see 'em. But all the answer I could ever get was, 
• Family reasons, Rufus ! ' " 

"That is it, in a word," said Mrs. Betterson; 
"family reasons. I never could explain them; so 
I have never written to poor, dear Lavinia — though, 
Heaven knows, I should be glad enough to see her; 
and I hope she has forgiven what seemed my hard- 
ness ; and — do tell me " (Mrs. Betterson wiped her 
eyes) "what sort of a girl is she? how has she 
come up ? " 

"She is one of the kindest-hearted, most un- 
selfish, beautiful girls in the world ! " Jack exclaimed. 
" I mean, beautiful in her spirit," he added, blush- 
ing at his own enthusiasm. 

" The Presbits are rather coarse people to bring 
up such a girl," said Mrs. Betterson, with a sigh — 
of self-reproach, Jack thought. 

" But she has a natural refinement, which noth- 
ing could make her lose," he replied. " Then, it 
was a good thing for her to be brought up with 
George Greenwood. She owes a great deal to the 
love of books he inspired in her. You ought to 
know your sister, Mrs. Betterson." 

The lady gave way to a flood of tears. 

" It is too bad ! such separations are unnatural. 
Certainly," she went on, " I can't be accused of 
feeling above my family now. Mr. Betterson has 
had three legacies left him, two since our marriage; 
but he has been exceedingly unfortunate." 

" Two such able-bodied boys must be a help and 
comfort to you," said Jack. 

"Rufus and Wadleigh," said Mrs. Betterson, 
" are good boys, but they have been brought up to 
dreams of wealth, and they have not learned to take 
hold of life with rough hands." 

2 3 8 



Jack suggested that it might have been better 
for them not to have such dreams. 

"Yes — if our family is to be brought down to 
the common level. But I can't forget, I can't wish 
them ever to forget, that they have Betterson blood 
in their veins." 

Jack could hardly repress a smile as he glanced 
from those stout heirs of the Betterson blood to the 
evidences of shiftlessness and wretchedness around 
them, which two such sturdy lads, with a little less 
of the precious article in their veins, might have 
done something to remedy. 

But his own unlucky adventure absorbed his 
thoughts, and he was glad when Link vociferously 
demanded if he was to go and catch the mare. 

"Yes! yes! do anything but kill me with that 
dreadful voice ! " replied the mother, waving him 
off with her trembling hand. "Don't infer from 
what I have said," she resumed, gathering herself 
up again with feeble pride, "that we are poor. 
Mr. Betterson will come into a large fortune when 
an uncle of his dies ; and he gets help from him 
occasionally now. Not enough, however, to enable 
him to carry on the farm ; and it requires capital, 
you are aware, to make agriculture a respectable 

Jack could not forbear another hit at the big boys. 

" It requires land," he said ; " and that you have. 
It also requires bone and muscle ; and I see some 

" True," simpered Mrs. Betterson. " But their 
father has n't encouraged them very much in doing 
the needful labors of the farm." 

" He hasn't set us the example," broke in Rufe, 
piqued by Jack's remark. " If he had taken hold 
of work, I suppose we should. But while he sits 
down and waits for somebody or something to 
come along and help him, what can you expect of 
. us?" 

" Our Betterson blood shows itself in more ways 
than one ! " said Wad, with a grin, illustrating his 
remark by lazily seating himself once more on the 

Evidently the boys were sick of hearing their 
mother boast of the aristocratic familv connection. 
She made haste to change the subject. 

" Sickness has been our great scourge. The 
climate has never agreed with either me or my 
husband. Then our poor Cecilia met with an ac- 
cident a year ago, which injured her so that she has 
scarcely taken a step since." 

" An accident done a-purpose ! " spoke up Rufe, 
angrily. " Zeph Peakslow threw her out of a 
swing — the meanest trick ! They 're the meanest 
family in the world, and there 's a war between us. 
I 'm onlv waiting my chance to pay off that Zeph." 

"Rufus!" pleaded the little invalid from the 

lounge, " you know he could never have meant t 
hurt me so much. Don't talk of paying him of 
Rufus ! " 

" Cecie is so patient under it all ! " said Mrs. Be' 
terson. ' ' She never utters a word of complaint. Ye 
she does n't have the care she ought to have. Wit 
my sick baby, and my own aches and pains, wh; 
can I do ? There are no decent house-servants t 
be had, for love or money. O, what would n't 
give for a good, neat, intelligent, sympathizing girl 
Our little Lilian, here, — poor child ! — is all the hel 
I have." 

At that moment the bright little dish-washe: 
having put away the supper things, and gone t 
the spring for water, came lugging in a small bi 
brimming pail. 

"It is too bad!" replied Jack. "You shoul 
have help about the hard work," with anothf 
meaning glance at the boys. 

"Yes," said Rufe, "we ought to; and we di 
have Sal Wiggett a little while this summer. Bi 
she had never seen the inside of a decent hou< 
before. About all she was good for was to spl 
wood and milk the cow. " 

" O, how good this is !" said the invalid, drinl 
ing. " I was so thirsty ! Bless you, dear Lil! 
What should we do without you ? " 

Jack rose to his feet, hardly repressing his ii 

' ' Would you like a drink, sir ? " said Lill, takir 
a fresh cupful from her pail, and looking up at hi 
with a bright smile. 

' ' Thank you, I should very much ! But I car 
bear the thought of your lugging water from tl 
spring for me." 

'■Why, Lillie ! " said Cecie, softly, "you shou 
have offered it to him first." 

" I thought I did right to offer it to my sick sist' 
first," replied Lill, with a tender glance at tl 

"You did right, my good little girl!" exclaimc 
Jack, giving back the cup. He looked from 01 
to the other of the big boys, and wondered ho 
they could witness this scene and not be touchc 
by it. But he only said : 

"Have these young men too much Bettersc 
blood in them to dress the fawn, if I leave it wi 
you ? " 

"We'll fall back on our Dalton blood, lor 
enough for that," said Wad. taking the sarcasm 
good part. 

"A little young venison will do Cecie so mu< 
good ! " said Mrs. Betterson. " You are very kin 
But don't infer that we consider the Dalton blo< 
inferior. I was pleased with what you said of L 
vinia's native refinement. I feel as if, after all, s! 
was a sister to be proud of." 


2 39 

At this last display of pitiful vanity, Jack turned 

The idea of such a woman concluding that she 
, t ay be proud of a sister like Vinnie !" thought he. 
But he spoke only to say good-by ; for just then 
ink came riding the mare to the door. 
■ She was quickly harnessed to the buggy, while 
ink, at his mother's entreaty, put on a coat, and 
lade himself look as decent as possible. Then 
ick drove away, promising that Link, who accom- 
anied him, should bring the mare back in the 

, "Mother," said the thoughtful Lill, "we ought 
> have got him some supper." 

- "I thought of it," said the sick woman, "but 
ou know we have nothing fit to set before him." 

; " He won't famish," said Rufe, — " with the large 
apply of sauce which he keeps on hand ! Mother, 
wish you would n't ever speak of our Betterson 
lood again; it only makes us ridiculous." 

I Thereupon Mrs. Betterson burst into tears, com- 
laining that her own children turned against her. 

i " O, bah ! " exclaimed Rufe, with disgust, stalk- 
ig out of the room, banging a milk-pail, and 

,/aking the baby. "Be sharpening the knives, 
Vad, while I milk ; then we '11 dress that fawn in a 
lUrry. Wish the fellow had left us the doe instead." 

Chapter VIII. 


LEAVING Jack to drive home the borrowed mare 
n the harness of the stolen horse, and to take such 
neasures as he could for the pursuit of the thief 
ind the recovery of his property, we have now 

say a few words of Mrs. Betterson's younger 

Vinnie had perhaps thriven quite as well in the 
plain Presbit household as she would have done in 

.he home of the ambitious Caroline. The tasks 
[larly put upon her, instead of hardening and em- 
bittering her, had made her self-reliant, helpful and 
„itrong, with a grace like that acquired by girls who 
,::arry burdens on their heads. For it is thus that 

abors cheerfully performed, and trials borne with 
;jood-will and lightness of heart, give a power and 

1 charm to body and mind. 

It was now more than a year since George Green- 
iWood, who had been brought up with her in his 
uncle's family, had left the farm, and gone to seek 
his fortune in the city. A great change in the 
ihouse, and a very unhappy change for Vinnie, had 
been the result. It was not that she missed her 
foster-brother so much ; but his going out had oc- 
casioned the coming in of another nephew, who 
brought a young wife with him. The nephew filled 
George's place on the farm, and the young wife 

showed a strong determination to take Vinnie's 
place in the household. 

As long as she was conscious of being useful, in 
however humble a sphere, Vinnie was contented. 
She did her daily outward duty, and fed her heart 
with secret aspirations, and kept a brave, bright 
spirit through all. But now nothing was left to her 
but to contend for her rights with the new-comer, 
or to act the submissive part of drudge where she 
had almost ruled before. Strife was hateful to her ; 
and why should she remain where her services were 
now scarcely needed ? 

So Vinnie lapsed into an unsettled state of mind, 
common enough to a certain class of girls of her 
age, as well as to a larger class of boys, when the 
great questions of practical life confront them : 
" What am I to be ? What shall I do for a living?" 

How ardently she wished she had money, so that 
she could spend two or three entire years at school ! 
How eagerly she would have used those advantages 
for obtaining an education which so many, who 
have them, carelessly throw away ! But Vinnie 
had nothing — could expect nothing — which she did 
not earn. 

At one time she resolved to go to work in a fac- 
tory ; at another, to try teaching a district school ; 
and again, to learn some trade, like that of dress- 
maker or milliner. Often she wished for the free- 
dom to go out into the world and gain her livelihood 
like a boy. 

In this mood of mind she received two letters. 
One was from Jack, describing his accidental visit 
to her sister's family. The other was from Caroline 
herself, who made that visit the occasion of writing 
a plaintive letter to her " dear, neglected Lavinia." 

Many tears she shed over these letters. The 
touching picture Jack drew of the invalid Cecie, and 
the brave little Lilian, and of the sick mother and 
baby, with Caroline's sad confession of distress, and 
of her need of sympathy and help, wakened springs 
of love and pity in the young girl's heart. She 
forgot that she had anything to forgive. All her 
half-formed schemes for self-help and self-culture 
were at once discarded, and she formed a coura- 
geous resolution. 

" I will go to Illinois," she said, " and take care 
of my poor sister and her sick children." 

Such a journey, from Western New York, was 
no small undertaking in those days. But she did 
not shrink from it. 

"What!" said Mrs. Presbit, when Vinnie's de- 
termination was announced to her, " you will go and 
work for a sister who has treated you so shamefully 
all these years ? Only a half-sister, at that ! I 'm 
astonished at you ! I thought you had more sperit. " 

" For anything she may have done wrong, I am 
sure she is sorry enough now," Vinnie replied. 




" Yes, now she has need of you ! " sneered Mrs. 

" Besides," Vinnie continued, "I ought to go, 
for the children's sake, if not for hers. Think of 
Cecie and the poor baby ; and Lilian, not ten years 
old, trying to do the housework ! I can do so 
much for them ! " 

"No doubt of that; for I must say you are as 
handy and willing a girl as ever I see. But there 's ' 
the Betterson side to the family, — two great, lubberly 
boys, according to your friend's account ; a proud, 
domineering set, I warrant ye ! The idee of mak- 
ing a slave of yourself for them ! You '11 find it a 
mighty uncomf 'table place, mark my word !" 

" I hope no more so than the place I am in now, 
— excuse me for saying it, Aunt Presbit," added 
Vinnie, in a trembling voice. ""It isn't your 
fault. But you know how things are." 

" O, la, yes ! she wants to go ahead, and order 
everything ; and I think it 's as well to let her, — 
though she '11 find she can't run over wk / But I 
don't blame you the least mite, Vinnie, for feeling 
sensitive ; and if you 've made up your mind to go, 
I sha' n't hender ye, — I '11 help ye all I can." 

So it happened that, only four days after the re- 
ceipt of her sister's letter, Vinnie, with all her 
worldly possessions contained in one not very large 
trunk, bade her friends good-by, and, not without 
misgivings, set out alone on her long journey. 

She took a packet-boat on the canal for Buffalo. 
At Buffalo, with the assistance of friends she had 
made on board the boat, she found the captain of 
a schooner, who agreed to give her a passage 
around the lakes to Chicago, for four dollars. 
There were no railroads through Northern Ohio 
and across Michigan and Indiana, in those days ; 
and, although there were steamboats on the lakes, 
Vinnie found that a passage on one of them would 
cost more money than she could afford. So she 
was glad to go in the schooner. 

The weather was fine, the winds favored, and 
the '•Heron" made a quick trip. Vinnie, after 
two or three days of sea-sickness, enjoyed the voy- 
age, which was made all the more pleasant to her 
by the friendship of the captain and his wife. 

She was interested in all she saw, — in watching 
the waves, the sailors hauling the ropes, the swell- 
ing of the great sails ; in the vessels they met or 
passed, the ports at which they touched, the fort, 
the Indians, and the wonderfully clear depth of the 
water at Mackinaw. But the voyage grew tiresome 
toward the close, and her heart bounded with joy 
when the captain came into the cabin early one 
morning, and announced that they had reached 

The great Western metropolis was then a town 
of no more than eight or ten thousand inhabitants, 

hastily and shabbily built on the low level of tin 
plain stretching for miles back from the lake shore 
In a short walk with the captain's wife, Vinnie sav 
about all of the place she cared to ; noting particu 
larly a load of hay "slewed," or mired, in thi 
mud-holes of one of the principal streets ; the sigh 
of which made her wonder if a great and flourish 
ing city could ever be built there ! 

Meanwhile the captain, by inquiry in the resort: 
of market-men, found a farmer who was going tc 
drive out to the Long Woods settlement that after 
noon, and who engaged to come with his wagon tt 
the wharf where the "Heron" lay, and take ori 
Vinnie and her trunk. 

" O, how fortunate!" she exclaimed. " Hou 
good everybody is to me ! Only think, I shaL 
reach my sister's house to-night ! " 

Chapter IX. 


In due time a rough farm-wagon was backer 
down upon the wharf, and a swarthy man, with , 
high, hooked nose, like the inverted prow of a ship, 
boarded the schooner, and scratched his head, 
through its shock of stiff, coarse hair, by way ol 
salutation to Vinnie, who came on deck to meel 

" Do' no 's you '11 like ridin' with me, in a lumber-' 
wagon, on a stiff board seat." 

" O, I sha' n't mind," said Vinnie, who was onh 
too glad to go. 

" What part of the settlement are you goin' to?' 
he asked, as he lifted one end of the trunk, what 
the captain took up the other. 

"To Mr. Betterson's house; Mrs, Betterson i: 
my sister," said Vinnie. 

The man dropped his end of the trunk, and 
turned and glared at her. 

" You 've got holt o' the wrong man this time ! " 
he said. " I don't take nobody in my wagon to 
the house of no sich a man as Lord Betterson. Ye 
may tell him as much. " 

" Will you take me to any house near by ? " said 
the astonished Vinnie. 

"Not if you're a connection of the Bettersons' 
I won't for no money ! I 've nothin' to do with 
that family, but to hate and despise 'em. Tell 'em 
that too. But they know it a'ready. My name 's 
Dudley Peakslow." 

And, in spite of the captain's remonstrance, the 
angry man turned his back upon the schooner, and 
drove off in his wagon. 

It took Vinnie a minute to recover from the shock 
his rude conduct gave her. Then she smiled faintly 
and said : 

"It's too bad I couldn't have a ride in his old 



.igon ! But he would n't be very agreeable corn- 
By, would he ? " 

So she tried to console herself for the disappoint- 
ent. She had thought all along: "If I can do 
1 better, I will take the stage to North Mills ; 
ck will help me get over to my sister's from 
ere." And it now seemed as if she might have 
take that route. 

The schooner was discharging her miscellaneous 
;ight of Eastern merchandise, — dry goods, gra- 
des, hardware, boots and shoes, — and the captain 

as too much occupied to do anything more for 
i'*;r that afternoon. 
" She grew restless under the delay ; feeling that 

le ought to make one more effort to find a con- 
veyance direct to Long Woods, she set off alone to 

take inquiries for herself. 

z] The first place she visited was a hotel she had 
taticed in her morning's walk, — the " Farmers' 
iiiome ; " and she was just going away from the 
:'.DOr, having met with no success, when a slim 

Duth, carrying his head jauntily on one side, came 
1 ipping after her, and accosted her with an apolo- 
>etic smile and lifted hat. 

I Excuse me, — I was told you wanted to find 
iimebody going out to Mr. Betterson's at Long 

! "O, yes ! do you know of anybody I can ride 

" I am in a way of knowing, — why, yes, — I think 
there is a gentleman going out early to-morrow 
morning. A gentleman and his daughter. Wife 
and daughter, in fact. A two-seated wagon ; you 
might ride on the hind-seat with the daughter. 
Stopping at the ' Prairie Flower.' " 

" O, thank you ! And can I go there and find 
them ? " 

" I am going that way, and, if you please, I will 
introduce you," said the youth. 

Vinnie replied that, if he would give her their 
names, she would save him the trouble. 
For, despite his affability, there was 
something about him she distrusted 
and disliked, — an indefinable air of 
insincerity, and a look out of his eyes 
of gay vagabondism and dissipation. 

He declared that it would be no 
trouble ; moreover, he could not at 
that moment recall the names; so, as 
there was no help for it, she let him 
walk by her side. 

At the " Prairie Flower," — which 
was not quite so lovely or fragrant a 
public-house as the name had led her 
to expect, — he showed her into a small, 
dingy sitting-room, up one flight of 
stairs, and went to speak with the 

" The ladies will be here presently," 
he said, returning to her in a few 
minutes. "Meanwhile I thought I 
would order some refreshments." 

And he was followed into the room 
by a waiter bringing a basket of cake 
and two glasses of wine. 

"No refreshments for me!" cried 
Vinnie, quickly. 

" The other ladies will like some," 
said the youth, carelessly. " Intimate friends of 
mine. Just a little cake and sweet wine." 

"But you have ordered only two glasses ! And 
a few minutes ago you could n't think of their 
names, — those intimate friends of yours ! " returned 
Vinnie, with sparkling eyes. 

The youth took up a glass, threw himself back 
in a chair, and laughed. 

"It's a very uncommon name — Jenkins; no, 
Judkins ; something like that. Neighbors of the 
Bettersons ; intimate friends of theirs, I mean. 
You think I 'm not acquainted out there ? Ask 
Carrie ! ask the boys, hi, hi ! " — with a giggle and 
a grimace, as he sipped the wine. 

"You do really know my sister Caroline?" said 
The youth set down his glass and stared. 
"Your sister ! I wondered who in thunder you 




could be, inquiring your way to Betterson's; but 
I never dreamed — excuse me, I would n't have 
played such a joke, if I had known ! " 

"What joke?" Vinnie demanded. 

" Why, there 's no Jenkins — Judkins — what did 
I call their names ? I just wanted to have a little 
fun, and find you out." 

Vinnie trembled with indignation. She started 
to go. 

" But you haven't found me out," he said, with 
an impudent chuckle. 

" I 've found out all I wish to know of you," said 
Vinnie, ready to cry with vexation. " I 've come 
alone all the way from my home in Western New 
York, and met nobody who was n't kind and re- 
spectful to me, till I reached Chicago to-day." 

The wretch seemed slightly touched by this re- 
buke ; but he laughed again as he finished his 

" Well, it was a low trick. But 'twas all in fun, 
I tell ye. Come, drink your wine, and make up ; 
we '11 be friends yet. Wont drink ? Here goes, 
then ! " 

And he tossed off the contents of the second 

" Now we '11 take a little walk, and talk over ou 
Betterson friends by the way." 

She was already out of the room. He hastenti 
to her side ; she walked faster still, and he cam 
tripping lightly after her down the stairs. 

Betwixt anger and alarm, she was wonderin 
whether she should try to run away from him, 
ask the protection of the first person she met, wher 
looking eagerly from the door-way as she hurrie 
out, she saw, across the street, a face she knew 
and uttered a cry of joy. 

"Jack! O, Jack!" 

It seemed almost like a dream, that it should lr, 
deed be Jack, then and there. He paused, glance 
up and down, then across at the girlish figure stari 
ing toward him, and rushed over to her, reachin 
out both hands, and exclaiming: 

"Vinnie Dalton ! is it you?" 

In the surprise and pleasure of this unexpecte 
meeting, she forgot all about the slim youth sh 
was so eager to avoid a moment before. Wht 
she thought of him again, and looked about he: 
he had disappeared, having slipped behind hei 
and skipped back up the stairs with amazing agilit 
at sight of Jack. 

(To be continued.) 


By Alexander Wainwright. 

There was a time when valentines were simply 
love-letters written on very fancy note-paper, with 
some poetry and a bunch of forget-me-nots at the 
head. Years ago my dear old grandmother made 
me happy by sending one of these, which I have 
still, and very pretty it is, although the ink is faded 
to a yellow. The poetry is especially nice, but the 
punctuation marks are left out, as they did n't care 
about these troublesome little things in the good 
old days. I think it said : 

" When the sunshine is around thee 
In the dark and silent night 
In the cottage and the palace 

May thy way be always bright!" 

Of course I could n't imagine who sent it, — nobody 
who gets a valentine ever can, — but I strongly sus- 
pected Sally Lawton, and she had a bite out of all 
my apples until I found out my mistake. Tommy 
Jones was her valentine, and I gave him a punching 

for it, too, as he was mean, and pretended all tl 
while that he did n't like her. 

However, the old fashion has passed away, an 
valentines are now very elaborate things, employin 
thousands of skillful workmen in their manufactur 
They serve as the covers of all sorts of cost 
presents, and some of them are real works 1 
art. Clever designers are constantly employed i 
the invention of new combinations, pleasing effec 
of grouping or color, and whimsical surprises. Tl 
most careful labors of draughtsmen, lithographer 
wood-en gravers, painters, color-printers, card-boarc 
artificial flower and feather makers are spent upu 
them, to say nothing" of the assistance given 1 
workers in silk, silver and glass. Even the tropic; 
forests of Brazil and the depths of the sea are rat 
sacked for fresh materials. 

There is one firm in London which has thn 
hundred and sixty-eight different kinds of valei 
tines. The cheapest are two cents each, and tl 

'75- J 




lest cost nearly sixty dollars. All are pretty, and 
■me are magnificent. One is called " Love's 
hotograph." A tiny mirror is hidden beneath a 
'inch of flowers, and some dear girl finds that the 
flection of her own face is your love's photograph. 
3 here are true lovers' knots painted on the softest 
utin ; birds of bright plumage under gauze ; girls 
1 silver frames ; paper flowers which bloom when 
'le valentine is opened and close when it is shut ; 
lore paper flowers hidden behind screens of silver 
ad in little wicker baskets, with exotic flowers 
ainted by hand on the finest silk and framed in 
Tver lace. 

No florist ever succeeded better than the mod- 
■m valentine-maker does in putting together 

More than this, marine flowers gathered from the 
bottom of the Mediterranean Sea are used in val- 
entines, and real birds are quite common. As Lucy 
opens the box that comes for her with a whole 
string of postage-stamps upon it, it is possible that 
she will find the cunningest of humming-birds in a 
little nest, holding a message in its beak. Not the 
picture of one, mind you, but a real one, that has 
been caught and stuffed for the valentine-maker. 

The latest fashion in valentines is to combine 
them with useful articles. A lace or pearl-handled 
fan, costing sixty dollars, is secreted beneath 
flowers and mottoes and Cupids. A fine silk 
necktie, for a gentleman or boy, is wrapped in 
white gauze, with the tender sentiment : " Through 


■he prettiest colors. Blush roses and forget-me- 
lots ; camelias, with rich dark green leaves ; lilies 
)f the valley, water lilies, ferns and pansies are 
oombined with a wondrous degree of taste and skill. 
Sometimes the valentine is the miniature of a 
Hnsformation scene in a theater. It is folded and 
unfolded by an ingenious arrangement, which re- 
peals a garden, with a flock of birds flying over it, 
ind a lake of mirror-glass, with a swan upon its 
shining surface. 

Sometimes, too, the flowers are neither painted 
lor made of paper or muslin. 

Far away in Brazil, there is a large convent, in 
which the sedate nuns make gay artificial flowers 
aitirely out of the feathers of the gorgeous birds that 
haunt the forests of South America. I cannot give 
you an idea of how rich and lustrous they are. 

cloud and sunshine I am thine." Articles of dress 
or jewelry often are enclosed. Sometimes a smok- 
ing-cap or a pair of embroidered slippers. The 
descriptive catalogue of Mr. Rimmel, the London 
perfumer, includes valentines containing Japanese 
ornamental hair-pins, cravats, pin-cushions, chate- 
laine bottles, brooches, gold watch trinkets, lockets, 
turquoise and garnet rings, silver filigree brooches, 
ear-rings and bracelets, head-dresses and double 
smelling-bottles. Then, too, there are musical 
valentines in the form of glove and handkerchief 
or jewel-cases. One magnificent affair costs forty 
dollars. It is made of pale blue silk, and trimmed 
with gilt. At one side is a compartment for gloves, 
and at the other a place for handkerchiefs, with 
two beautiful smelling-bottles in the middle. As 
the lid is raised, a musical-box, hidden underneath, 




plays a favorite air, such as, " Then you'll remem- 
ber me," or an air from an opera. 

I am not sure that the new custom of making ex- 
pensive presents is better than the old one of 
writing a love-letter, and it certainly is not a proof 
of greater affection in the senders. 

A pleasant improvement might be made upon 
both the old and new customs without sacrificing 
the observance of the day. Let the boys and girls 
make their own valentines, during the long winter 
evenings. All the necessary materials may be 
purchased for twenty-five or thirty cents at a sta- 
tioner's store. Suitable designs are to be found in 
many books, and some tinsel, crayons, water-colors, 
and lace-paper would enable clever young fingers 
to produce very pretty things. There might, for 
instance, be a simple Grecian border around a 
sheet of lace-paper, and, inclosed within this, a 
lily, a rose, or some illuminated verses. Decal- 

comanie would do very well, in case the valentine 
maker could not draw; or, better still, pressi 
leaves might be called to the service. A re 
autumn waif or two, carefully dried, pressed, an 
mounted on tinted paper, and surrounded by 
wreath of ivy, would be pretty. Or one migr 
make something lovely out of very delicate grasses 
mosses, and lichens, arranging them at the hea' 
of the paper, leaving space for a letter beneatl 
This would call for a tasteful box-envelope. . 
little care, taste and patience would work wondei 
with the simplest materials. 

Valentines of* this kind would be more highl 
prized by a sincere friend, too, than the finest pre 
ductions of the professional valentine-maker. A 
the same time, their preparation would afford yo 
many hours of amusement, and exercise in the us 
of color and form that would be profitable to yo 
in countless ways. 


By Margaret Eytinge. 

Millie ran into the dining-room and threw her 
books down on the dining-table. 

" I knew all my lessons to-day," she said, "and 
I want my dinner ; and oh ! did you have black- 
berry pie ? " 

But what I am going to tell is not about Millie 
or blackberry pie, but about the books after Millie 
and her mamma had gone out of the room and left 
them to themselves. 

" Millie is a very clever little girl." said the 
Grammar, ''and talks very well. I take great 
credit to myself for teaching her to speak so cor- 

" Yes," said the Arithmetic, "she is bright, and 
can't be beat in Addition, Subtraction, Multiplica- 
tion and Division. Really bright children always 
understand my rules ; I make them so clear and 

" She should be very much obliged to us," joined 
in the Geography, "for without us she could not 
be clever at all. For instance, see how much / 
tell her. I describe all countries, including her 
own ; all bodies of water, all mountains, the differ- 
ent kinds of people — thousands of things. In fact, 
/ think the information / impart " (most books use 

big words) " the most interesting and valuable sh 

" Pshaw !" sneered the History. " You 're alom 
in that opinion. Where does she learn all the par 
ticulars about different countries, including he 
own, as you say ? ' Christopher Columbus, a native 
of Genoa, Italy, discovered America in the yea 
1492. He set sail with three small ' " 

" Oh, do stop that," interrupted the othe 
books; "we've heard that until we are sick pi 

" Sometimes I wish he had never set sail," addetj 
the Geography. 

" Where does she learn about the great battles 
— the lives of the kings, queens, and emperors ? ' 
continued the History, waving its cover triumph 
antly; "about the illustrious Father of his Country 
George Washington, who never " 

" Don't believe it ! " interrupted the books. 

"And if he never did, History does," said the 
Arithmetic — " many a one. It is only figures tha 
never lie." 

"From what does our Millie gain knowledge "- 
here spoke the Natural History — "of beasts anc' 
birds and fish ? All things that walk, or fly, 01 




-reep, or swim, or stop still and only breathe ? 
f 'he wonderful habits of the insects, the traits of 
;ie massive elephant, and the capers of the mis- 
, hievous monkey ? " 

" My friends " — here joined in a tiny voice for 
ae first time, causing the books to stand up on 
neir edges and look over at the corner of the room 
/here lay the little torn Primer, from which it pro- 
eeded — " my friends, I know you all help to make 
lillie wise and learned ; but of what use would be 

all you can tell if she could not read it ? You would 
be nothing without me ! " 

" You ! " cried the others, in a scornful voice. 

" Yes, me," answered the little torn Primer. "/ 
taught her her letters. Without knowing them, 
what good would any book be to her ?" 

" How tiresome small books are," said the His- 

" I guess I'll take a nap," yawned the Geogra- 
phy. And so the conversation ended. 



[see frontispiece/ 

MARMOSETS are cunning little monkeys from 
iouth America, and are often very tame and gentle, 
rhese little creatures are about the size of squirrels, 
)ut they have very old and wise faces. Some of 
hem look as if they knew as much as anybody. 
Jut the two in our frontispiece, which is copied 

from a beautiful picture by Sir Edwin Landseer, do 
not seem to know what sort of an insect it is that 
has alighted on the leaves of the pine-apple. So 
they have jumped up to examine it. If they come 
too close and get its little sting in one of their noses, 
they may find out more than they want to know. 


(A I 'alcntinc Story.) 

By Susan Coolidge. 

WO valentines lay together in 
the pillar post-box. One was 
pink and one was blue. Pink 
lay a-top, and they crackled to 
each other softly in the paper- 
language, invented long since 
by Papyrus, the father of 
Manuscript, and used by all written and printed 
sheets unto this day. Listen hard, next time you 
Visit the reading-room at the Public Library, and 
jou will hear the newspapers exchanging remarks 
across the table in this language. 

Said the pink valentine: "I am prettier than 
you, much prettier, Miss Blue." 

Blue was modester. " That may be true, ray 
dear Miss Pink ; still, some folks like blue best, I 
think," she replied. 

" I wonder they should," went on Pink, talking in 
prose now, for valentines can speak in prose and in 
rhyme equally well. " You are such a chilly color. 
Now / warm people. They smile when they see 
me. I like that. It is sweet to give pleasure." 

" I like to give pleasure, too." said Blue, mod- 
estly. " And I hope I may, for something beauti- 
ful is written inside me." 

" What ? oh ! what?" cried Pink. 

"I cannot say," sighed Blue. "How can one 
tell what is inside one ? But I know it is some- 
thing sweet, because 

She who sent me here, 
Is so very fair and dear." 

Blue was running into rhyme again, as valen- 
tines will. 

" I don't believe a word of it," said Pink, dig- 
ging her sharp elbow into Blue's smooth side. 
" Nothing is written inside me, and I 'm glad of it. 
I am too beautiful to be written on. In the middle 
of my page is a picture, Cupid, with roses and 
doves. Oh, so fine ! There is a border too, 
wreaths of flowers, flowers of all colors, and a 
motto, ' Be mine.' Be mine ! What can be better 
than that ? Have you got flowers and ' Be mine ' 
inside, you conceited thing ? If not, say so, and 
be ashamed, as you deserve to be." 




Again the pink efbow dented Blue's smooth en- 

But Blue only shook her head softly, and made 
no answer. Pink grew angry at this. She caught 
Blue with her little teeth of mucilage and shook 
her viciously. 

"Speak," she said. "I hate your stuck-up, 
shut-up people. Speak ! " 

But Blue only smiled, and again shook her head. 

Just then, the pillar-post opened with a click. 
The postman was come. He scooped up Pink, 
Blue, and all the other letters, and threw them into 
his wallet. A fat yellow envelope of law-papers 
separated the two valentines, and they had no 
further talk. 

Half-an-hour later, Pink was left at the door of 
a grand house, almost the finest in the town. 
Charles, the waiter, carried her into the parlor, 
and Pink said to herself: " What a thing it is to 
have a mission. My mission is to give pleasure ! " 

" A letter for you, Miss Eva," said Charles. He 
did not smile. Well-behaved waiters never smile ; 
besides, Charles did not like Eva. 

" Where is your tray?" demanded Eva, crossly. 
" You are always forgetting what mamma told you. 
Go and get it. But when she saw Pink in her 
beautiful envelope, unmistakably a valentine, she 
decided not to wait. " Never mind this time," she 
said ; " but don't let it happen again." 

" Who 's your letter from, Evy ?" asked grand- 

" I have n't opened it yet, and I wish you 
wouldn't call me Evy ; it sounds so back-woodsy," 
replied Eva, who, for some mysterious reason, had 
■waked that morning very much out of temper. 

" Eva ! " said her father, sternly. 

Eva had forgotten that papa was there. To 
hide her confusion, she opened the pink envelope 
so hastily as to tear it all across. 

" O dear ! " she complained. " Everything goes 

Then she unfolded the valentine. Pink, who 
had felt as if a sword were thrust through her heart 
when her envelope was torn, brightened up. 

"Now," she thought, "when she sees the 
flowers, Cupid and doves, she wiilbe pleased." 

But it was not pleasure which shone on Eva's 

"What's the matter?" asked papa, seeing her 
face swell and angry tears filling her eyes. 

"That horrid Jim Slack!" cried Eva. "He 
said he 'd send me a valentine just like Pauline's, 
and he has n't. Hers was all birds and butterflies, 
and had verses " 

" Yours seems pretty enough," said papa, con- 

"It's not pretty enough," responded Eva, pas- 

sionately. "It's a stupid, ugly thing. I hate i 
I wont have it." 

And, horrible to state, she flung Pink, actual 
flung her, into the middle of the fire. There w; 
time for but one crackling gasp ; then the yello' 
flame seized and devoured all — Cupid, dove' 
flowers ! Another second, they were gone, 
black scroll edged with fiery sparkles reared itse 
up in the midst of the glow ; then an air-currei 
seized it, it rose, and the soul of Pink flew up th 

Blue, meantime, was lying on the lap of a lift' 
girl of twelve, a mile or more from this scene 
tragedy. Two plump hands caressed her softly. 

" Sister, may I read it to you just once more? 
begged a coaxing voice. 

" Yes, Pet, once more. That '11 make five time! 
and they say there is luck in odd numbers," sai 
another voice, kind and gay. 

So Pet read : 

" My dear is like a dewy rose 
All in the early morn : 
But never on her stem there grows 
A single wounding thom. 

My dear is like a violet shy, 

Who hides her in the grass, 
And holds a fragrant cup on high 

To bless all men who pass. 

My dear is like a merry bird, 

My dear is like a rill, 
Like all sweet things or seen or heard, 

Only she 's sweeter still. 

And while she blooms beside my door, 

Or sings beneath my sky, 
My heart with happiness runs o'er, 

Content and glad am I. 

So, sweetheart, read me as I run, 

Smile on this simple rhyme, 
And choose me out to be your one 

And only 


" Isn't it lovely ?" said Pet, her blue eyes dancin, 
as she looked up. 

" Yes, it 's very nice," replied sister. 

" I wish everybody in the world had such a nic 
valentine," went on Pet. " How pleased they '\ 
be. Do you suppose anybody has sent Lotty one 
Only that about the bird would n't be true, becaus 
Lottv 's so sick, you know, and always stays ii 

"But Lotty sings," said sister. "She's alway, 
singing and cheerful, so she 's like a bird in that." 

" Birdies with broken wings 
Hide from each other; 
But babies in trouble 
Can run home to mother," 

hummed Pet, who knew the St. Nicholas jingle 
by heart. " But poor Lotty has n't any mamma t( 
run to," she added, softly. 




' No ; and that 's a reason why it would be so 
cially nice to give her the pleasure of a valentine 

ili.e yours." 

'I wish somebody had sent her one," said Pet, 


"I don't suppose there is another in the world 
st like yours," said sister, smiling at Pet. 

4 " Then she can't have one. What a pity." 
" She might have this of yours," suggested sister. 
I But — then — I should n't have any," cried Pet. 
"O yes, you would, and I '11 tell you how," said 

:iter. " You 've had all the pleasure of getting it, 
.d opening and reading it, already. That's yours 
keep. Now, if I copy the verses for you on 
ain white paper, you can read them over as 
ten as you like, till, by and by, you learn them 

4 heart. When you have done that they will be 

;iurs for always ; and, meanwhile, Lotty will have 
e pleasure of getting the valentine, opening, 
ading, learning, just as you have done — so you 
.11 get a double pleasure instead of one. Don't 
iu see ? " 

"That will be splendid," cried Pet, joyously. 
Poor Lotty, how glad she will be ! And I shall 
tve two pleasures instead of one, sha' n't I ? " 

! "How nice," thought Blue, "to have given two 

I easures already ! " 

j Sister copied the verses, a fresh envelope was 
und, and Blue was sent on her way. When she 
as carried upstairs to Lotty's room, she thought it 
e pleasantest place she had ever seen. Sunshine 
as there — on the wall, on the plants in the win- 
)w, most of all in Lotty's face, as she sat up in 
,'d, knitting with red worsted and big needles, 
''hen Blue was put into her hands, she laughed 
ith astonishment. 

" For me ! " she cried. " Who could have sent 
? How pretty it is — how pretty ! A great deal 

pretty for me. Oh, what a kind, dear some- 
tidy there is in the world ! " 

Everybody in the house was glad because Lotty 

as glad. Grandmamma came in to hear the valen- 

'!,ne ; so did papa, and Jack, Lotty's big brother, 

ldEred, her little one. Even the cook made up 

1 excuse about the pudding, and stole upstairs to 
ear the " fine verses which somebody had sint to 
[iss Lotty. It 's swate as roses she is, any day," 
lid cook ; " and good luck to him for sinding it, 

: hoiver he is." 
By and by, Lotty's tender heart began to busy 
self with a new plan. 

"Grandma," she said, "I'm thinking about 
ttle Mary Riley. She works so hard, and she 
ardly ever has anything nice happen to her. 
,)on't you think I might send her my valentine — 

I I a different envelope, you know, with her name 
n it and all ? She 'd be so pleased." 

" But I thought you liked it so much yourself, 
dear," replied grandmamma, unwilling to have her 
darling spare one bit of brightness out of her sick- 
room life. 

" Oh, I do ; that 's the reason I want to give it 
away," said Lotty, simply, and stroking Blue, who, 
had she known how, would gladly have purred 
under the soft touch. " But I shall go on liking it 
all the same if Mary has it, and she '11 like it too. 
Don't you see, grandmamma ? I 've copied the 
verses in my book, so that I can keep them." 

Grandmamma consented. The new envelope 
was found, Mary's address was written upon it, and 
away went happy Blue to give pleasure to a fresh 

" This is best of all," she said to herself, as Mary 
laid aside her weary sewing to read over and over 
again the wonderful verses, which seemed to have 
dropped out of fairy-land. She almost cried with 
pleasure that they should be sent to her. 

" I wish I could buy a frame for 'em — a beautiful 
gold frame," she whispered to herself. 

Pink would have been vain had she heard this ; 
but Blue glowed with a purer feeling — the happi- 
ness of giving happiness. 

Mary read the verses over a dozen times at least 
before putting them aside ; but she did put them 
aside, for she had work to finish, and daylight was 
precious. The work was a birthday frock. When 
the last stitch was set, she folded it carefully, put 
on cloak and bonnet, and prepared to carry the 
frock home. Last of all, she dropped Blue into her 
pocket. She did not like to leave it behind. Some- 
thing might happen, she thought. 

It was quite a grand house to which the birthday 
frock went. In fact, it was next door but one to 
the house in which Pink met with her melancholy 
fate. The little girl who was to wear the frock was 
very glad to see Mary, and her mamma came up- 
stairs to pay for the work. 

"Have you any change?" she said. "Come 
nearer to the fire. It is cold to-night." 

Mary was confused by this kindness. Her fingers 
trembled as she searched for her porte-monnaie, 
which was at the bottom of her pocket, underneath 
her handkerchief. She twitched out the handker- 
chief hastily, and with it, alas ! came Blue. They 
were close to the grate, and Blue was flung into the 
fire. Mary gave a scream and made a snatch. It 
was too late ! Already the flames had seized it ; 
her beloved valentine was gone, vanished into 
ashes ! 

" Was it anything valuable ? " asked the lady, as 
Mary gave a little sob. 

"Oh, n-o — yes, ma'am; that is, it was verses. 
I never had any before. And they were s-o beauti- 
ful ! " replied poor Mary, half-crying. 




The lady gave her an extra dollar for the sewing, 
but this did not console Mary. 

Meantime, the ghost of Blue flew up the chim- 
ney. Upon the roof hovered a dim gray shade. It 
was the ghost of Pink, wind-blown for a little space. 

" How sad life is ! " sighed Pink's ghost — 

" I was young, I was fair, 
And now I 'm in the air, 
As ugly gray ashes as ever were." 

" How sweet life is ! " murmured the ghost of 

" I 've only lived a Utile while, 

But I have made three people smile.'' 

A chickadee who heard the two ghosts discours- 

ing now flew down from the roof-peak. I 
gathered Blue's ashes up into his beak, flew do\< 
into the garden, and strewed them about the rd 
of a rose-tree. 

" In the spring you '11 be a rose," he said. 

Then he flew back, took up Pink's ashes, bo 
them into another garden, and laid them in tl 
midst of a bed of chickweed. 

" Make that chickweed crop a little richer, if y 
can," he chirped. " All the better for the dick 
birds if you do ; and a good thing for you too, 
be of use for once in your life." 

Then the chickadee flew away. Ghosts have 
get accustomed to plain speaking. 

This was the end of Blue and Pink. 


By Mary A. Hallock. 

When I was a little girl, and went to visit 
grandma Lewis, I always slept in the "fire-place 
bedroom." I don 't know why it was so called, for 
almost all the rooms had fire-places ; perhaps be- 
cause this room was so small and the fire-place so 
big. It was just across the hall from grandma's 
room ; the doors were opposite, only my room, 
being in the wing, was two steps lower than the 
hall. It had one window opening on an old wooden 
balcony, so overgrown with trumpet-creeper that 
the railing was quite hidden. Two or three slats 
were nailed across the lower part of the window, 
and grandma often warned me never to climb over 
them or set foot on the balcony, for a carpenter, 
who had been making repairs on the house a year 
or two before, had told her it was unsafe. 

" When I was a little girl," said she, " I used to 
lean over that railing and pick cherries from a big 
tree that grew so close to the house, its branches 
almost touched the windows ; that was a good while 
ago, my dear; there's nothing left of the cherry- 
tree now but that old stump where I set my box of 

" Was that picture here when you were a little 
girl, grandma," I said, pointing to one which hung 
over the mantel — the only picture in the room. 

" No, my dear. Your Uncle Henry brought that 
from England when he was a .young man. He 
could tell you all about it if he were here. I 
believe he bought it at an auction sale of old books, 
pictures and furniture. It was labeled, ' Portrait — 

supposed to be two children of the Bourhope far 
ily — (painter unknown).' If your uncle were he 
he could tell you about it. " 

Grandma went out of the room in her still w; 
and left me musing before the picture. It was 
boy and girl sitting together in a deep window-se 
reading from the same book. The boy might ha 
been fifteen ; he looked tall and slim ; his thii 
brown hair was tied back with a ribbon ; he seemi 
to be reading very intently, leaning forward 
his head resting on his hand. The girl looki 
younger than her brother. She was fair and roun 
dressed in a quaint, close-fitting gown of cream 
white satin, with facings and petticoat of blue ; h 
light hair was drawn up and fastened in a knot wi 
loops on the top of her head ; there were whi 
frills round her neck and sleeves, and a broad bai 
of black velvet round her fair throat. She leant 
back, one little foot in its quaint, high-heeled sli 
per, pushed out ; one arm round the neck of a dc 
which had pressed close to her, resting his he. 
against her lap. The window-seat was paneled 
dark carved wood, and great bars of sunlig 
streaming in, made a glow of light and col' 
through the picture. 

I had spent hours gazing at these two readers 
silently intent on the great book spread open befo 
them ; they filled a good share of my daily thougl' 
I had made up a dozen different stories about ther 
and it was with great interest I discovered that thi 
had once really lived. It seemed to me dreadf 

.ih and sold at auction. What had become of 1 had come back to the question of a name, and said, 

,it " Bourhope family," whose pictures had wan- half aloud, to myself: " What shall I call her?" 
red into such strange places ? All that afternoon ' ' Call me Dorothy, please, " a soft voice answered, 

was turning over in my mind a list of pretty Yes, it certainly came from the picture, for, look- 

mes that would " go " with Bourhope — Lionel ing up, I saw that my girl had turned her face and 



it they should have been labeled like old rub- 

all those years. I must have sat there a long time. 


hi Amy, Geoffry and Agnes, Philip and Ethel ; 

3, Marjorie or Elsie, or ; it was a difficult mat- 

\x to decide, and I was still thinking about it that 

I'ight in my room after grandma had lighted my 

indie and given me her good-night kiss. I sat 

own on the foot of the bed, half undressed, to take 

lother look at my hero and heroine. In the 

^certain candle-light they looked strangely real. 

could almost fancy I saw the girl's drooped eye- 

r Is tremble as if she were about to look up at last 

! om her book. , How tired they must be, reading 

Vol. II.— 17. 

was smiling down at me, while a faint color came 
to her cheek. 

It seemed quite natural to hear her speak at last, 
but could it be possible that her name was just 
plain Dorothy? "You don't really mean it," I 
said. "It sounds so common ; why, it's like > a dairy- 
maid's name ! " 

Here the boy looked up and said haughtily : 
" Many ladies of our family have been called 
Dorothy ; it is my mother's name, and she does n't 
look like a dairy-maid." 




"Nobody said she did, stupid ! The little girl 
does not think my name pretty — no more do I. I 'd 
far rather be called Clara or Isabel." 

" It is your name, and mamma's, and I like it," 
said the boy with a half-smile and half- frown. 

"Well, I'm glad you do; only you need n't be 
cross about it." 

Here I offered some apology for having spoken 
slightingly of Dorothy's name, but Dorothy's broth- 
er begged I would n't mention it — he was always 
" too quick ; " then he leaned across his sister's lap 
and began pulling the dog's ears, while she said : 
" 'T is not for yourself you are quick, Walter ; you 
speak up always for others." 

He laughed at that, and sprang up, shutting the 
big book with a bang. 

" You should go to court, Dolly, with your fine 
little speeches. I 'm going to feed my spaniel pups. 
Will you come, too? They are such beauties — as 
like as the peas in a pod." 

"And all like their mother, I suppose. No, 
thank you; she killed my pet kitten last spring, 
and I don't care to see her horrid little pups ! " 

"Why, Dorothy, surely you wouldn't blame 
the puppies for what their mother did before they 
were born ? " 

" I don't blame them ; only I don't like them." 

"Well, girls are queer. Next, you wont like 
me, because I 'm Juno's master. Come Vik." He 
whistled to the dog, and they both went away out 
of sight down a long hall, the dog's quick feet rat- 
tling beside the boy's echoing tramp. 

Dorothy leaned back against the wainscot and 
threw up one arm behind her head. " Walter is 
vexed with me, but he wont stay vexed long ; he 
never does ; he always gives up first whenever we 
quarrel. I should n't wonder if we soon heard him 
calling under the window." 

She smiled down at me half triumphantly under 
her drooped eyelids, and I thought to myself that, 
for all she was so pretty, perhaps she was a little 
spoiled ; but I only said : "What can you see from 
that window ?" 

" Oh, the terrace, and the yew-tree walk, and 
perhaps Walter with his dogs. Let us look and see 
if he has gone." 

" I wish I could." I betran to saw and then I 

found myself beside Dorothy in the window-sea 
She pushed open the casement, and we both leane 
out. Below was the terrace, with its broad stor 
railing, and the yew-tree walk beyond, crossed wit 
dark lines of shadow. It was all very still in tl 
low afternoon sunlight. W alter was not to be seei 
and while we listened for him, another sound can 
softly from a distant chamber. 

"Ah," said Dorothy, "that is mamma's har 
She will begin to sing by and by ; shall we go dou 
and hear her ? " 

I was eager to go at once, when I sudden 
remembered that I was half undressed. 

"Never mind," Dorothy said, "you can wa 
here a moment and I will fetch you something 
put on." 

We went together down a long hall, with mai 
dim old pictures hung high above the wainscotin 
and a row of deep windows, like the one we hi 
just left, throwing broad bars of light across t! 
floor. Each time we crossed the shadow into tl 
light, Dorothy, with her fair hair and shining dre; 
looked more and more unreal in her beauty, 
the end of the hall hung a curtain of tapestry, 
did not see any door, but Dorothy lifted one er 
of the curtain, and, looking back, said: " W; 
here a moment." Then she dropped the hea 
curtain between us, and I heard her footsteps goir 
on a little way, then down a short flight of step 
A door seemed to open, for suddenly the mus 
sounded very loud and sweet; then died aw 

I waited a long time for Dorothy, but she did n 
come. It grew dark and cold in the hall, a wii 
waved the curtain a little now and then, and let 
a gleam of lamp-light that shot a long reflectii 
across the polished floor. I thought I would ji 
raise the curtain a little and call Dorothy, bul 
never did, for I suddenly found myself lying acre 
the foot of the bed in my own little room. A shi 
ter had blown open, my candle was flaring wildl 
and there, in the picture over the fire-place, 3 
Walter and Dorothy Bourhope reading as they h 
always been. 

I felt very stiff and cold, and somehow disa 

If I had onlv raised that curtain a little sooner 






By Mary A. Lathbury. 

A LITTLE brown mother-bird sat in her nest, 
'With four sleepy birdlings tucked under her 
, breast, 

'And her querulous chirrup fell ceaseless and low, 
While the wind rocked the lilac-tree nest to 
t and fro. 

; Lie still, little nestlings ! lie still while I tell. 
For a lullaby story, a thing that befell 
'Your plain little mother one midsummer morn, 
A month ago, birdies — before you were born. 

I 'd been dozing and dreaming the long sum 

mer night, 
'Till the dawn flushed its pink through the 

waning moonlight ; 
When — I wish you could hear it once ! — faintly 

there fell 
.All around me the silvery sound of a bell. 

Then a chorus of bells ! So, with just half an 

I peeped from the nest, and those lilies close by, 
With threads of a cobweb, were swung to and 

By three little rollicking midgets below. 

"Then the air was astir as with humming-birds' 
wings ! 
And a cloud of the tiniest, daintiest things 
That ever one dreamed of, came fluttering 

A cluster of trumpet-flowers swayed in the air. 

"As I sat all a-tremble, my heart in my bill, — 
'I will stay by the nest,' thought I, 'happen 
what will ; ' 
So I saw with these eyes by that trumpet-vine 

A whole fairy bridal train poised in the air. 

" Such a bit of a bride ! Such a marvel of grace ! 
In a shimmer of rainbows and gossamer lace ; 
No wonder the groom dropped his diamond- 
dust ring, 
Which a little elf-usher just caught with his wing. 

" Then into the trumpet-flower glided the train, 
And I thought (for a dimness crept over my 

And I tucked my head under my wing) ' Deary 

me ! 
What a sight for a plain little mother like me ! ' " 





By C. A. Stephens. 

When I was a boy I lived in one of those rustic 
neighborhoods on the outskirts of the great " Maine 
woods." Foxes were plenty, for about all those 
sunny pioneer clearings birch-partridges breed by 
thousands, as also field-mice and squirrels, making 
plenty of game for Reynard. 

There were red foxes, "cross-grays," and "sil- 
ver-grays ; " even black foxes were reported. These 
animals were the pests of the farm-yards, and made 
havoc with the geese, cats, turkeys, and chickens. 
In the fall of the year, particularly after the frosts, 
the clearings were overrun by them night and 
morning. Their sharp, cur-like barks used often 
to rouse us, and of a dark evening we would hear 
them out in the fields, "mousing" around the 
stone-heaps, making a queer, squeaking sound 
like a mouse, to call the real mice out of their grass 
nests inside the stone-heaps. This, indeed, is a 
favorite trick of Reynard. 

At the time of my story, my friend Tom Edwards 
(ten years of age) and myself were in the turkey 
business, equal partners. We owned a flock of 
thirty-one turkeys. These roosted by night in a 
large butternut tree in front of Tom's house — in the 
very top of it, and by day they wandered about the 
edges of the clearings in quest of beech-nuts, which 
were very plenty that fall. 

All went well till the last week in October, when, 
on taking the census one morning, a turkey was 
found to be missing ; the thirty-one had become 
thirty since nightfall the previous evening. It was 
the first one we had lost. 

We proceeded to look for traces. Our suspicions 
were divided. Tom thought it was " the Twombly 
boys," nefarious Sam in particular. I thought it 
might have been an owl. But under the tree, in 
the soft dirt, where the potatoes had recently been 
dug, we found fox-tracks, and two or three ominous 
little wads of feathers, with one long tail feather 
adrift. Thereupon we concluded that the turkey 
had accidentally fallen down out of the butternut — 
had a fit, perhaps — and that its flutterings had at- 
tracted the attention of some passing fox, which 
had, forthwith, taken it in charge. It was, as we 
regarded it, one of those unfortunate occurrences 
which no care on our part could have well foreseen, 
and a casualty such as turkey-raisers are unavoid- 
ably heirs to, and we bore our loss with resignation. 
We were glad to remember that turkeys did not 
often fall oft' their roosts. 

This theory received something of a check when 

our flock counted only twenty- nine the next mor 
ing. There were more fox-tracks, and a great ma: 
more feathers under the tree. This put a new ai 
altogether ugly aspect on the matter. No algeb 
was needed to figure the outcome of the turk 
business at this rate, together with our prospecti 
profits, in the light of this new fact. It was cle 
that something must be done, and at once, too, 
ruin would swallow up the poultry firm. 

Rightly or wrongly, we attributed the mischi 
to a certain "silver-gray" fox that had sevei 
times been seen in the neighborhood that Autum 

It would take far too much space to relate in c 
tail the plans we laid and put in execution to cat 
that fox during the next two weeks. I recoils 
that we set three traps for him to no purpose, a: 
that we borrowed a fox-hound to hunt him wit 
but merely succeeded in running him to his burn 
in a neighboring rocky hill-side, whence we found 
quite impossible to dislodge the wily fellow. 

Meanwhile the fox (or foxes) had succeeded 
getting two more of the turkeys. 

Heroes, it is said, are born of great crises, 
dilemma of ours developed Tom's genius. 

" I '11 have that fox." he said, when the tra 
failed ; and when the hound proved of no avail, 
still said : * ' I '11 have him yet." 

'• But how?" I asked. Tom said he would shi 
me. He brought a two-bushel basket and we 
out into the fields. In the stone-heaps, and besi 
the old logs and stumps, there were dozens of c 
serted mouse-nests, each a wad of fine dry grass 
large as a quart box. These he gathered up, a 
filled the great basket. 

"There," said he, triumphantly, "don't th< 
smell mousey?" 

They did, certainly ; they savored as stronj 
of mice as Tom's question, of bad grammar. 

" And don't foxes catch mice ? " demanded To 

' ' Yes, but I don't see how that 's going to cat 
the fox," I said. 

"Well, look here, then. I '11 show ye," said 
"Play you 's the fox; and play 't was night, a 
you was prowling around the fields. Go off n 
out there by that stump." 

Full of wonder and curiosity, I retired to I 
stump. Tom, meantime, turned out the mass 
nests, and with it completely covered himself. 1 
pile now resembled an enormous mouse-nest, 
rather a small hay-cock. Pretty soon I hearc 



, high-keyed, squeaking noise, accompanied by 
light rustle inside the nest. Evidently there 
e mice in it; and, feeling my character as fox 
stake, I at once trotted forward, then crept up, 
I, as the rustling and squeaking continued, 
de a pounce into the grass — as I had heard it 
1 that foxes did when mousing. Instantly two 
y brown hands from out the nest clutched me 

'h a most vengeful grip. As a fox, I struggled 
nendously. But Tom overcame me forthwith, 
iked me nearly black in the face, then, in dumb 

' w, knocked my head with a stone. 
' D 'y e see ) now I " he demanded. 
- saw. 

' But a fox would bite you," I objected. 
'Let him bite," said Tom. "I'll resk him 

';n once I get these two bread-hooks on him. 
d he can't smell me through the mouse-nests 

'Tiat night we set ourselves to put the stratagem 
jperation. With the dusk we stole out into the 

'd where the stone-heaps were, and where we 

I oftenest heard foxes bark. Selecting a nook 
the edge of a clump of raspberry briars which 
w about a great pine-stump, Tom lay down, 

I I covered him up completely with the contents 
the big basket. He then practiced squeaking 
1 rustling several times to be sure that all was 
jood trim. His squeaks were perfect successes 
aade by sucking the air sharply betwixt his 


'Now be off," said Tom, "and don't come 
ring round, nor get in sight, till you hear me 


Thus exhorted, I went into the barn and estab- 

: ied myself at a crack on the back side, which 
ked out upon the field where Tom was am- 


Tom, meanwhile, as he afterward told me, 
ited till it had grown dark, then began squeak- 
; and rustling at intervals, to draw the attention 
the fox when first he should come out into the 

'aring, for foxes have ears so wonderfully acute, 
,t they are able to hear a mouse'squeak twenty 

1 Is away, it is said. 

\n hour passed. Tom must have grown pretty 
:d of squeaking. It was a moonless evening, 
iugh not very dark. I could see objects at a 
le distance through the crack, but could not see 

Tar as the stump. It got rather dull, watching 

are; and being amidst nice cozy straw, I pres- 
:ly went to sleep, quite unintentionally. I must 

have slept some time, though it seemed to me 
but a very few minutes. 

What woke me was a noise — a sharp suppressed 
yelp. It took me a moment to understand where I 
was, and why I was there. A sound of scuffling 
and tumbling on the ground at some distance 
assisted my wandering wits, and I rushed out of 
the barn and ran toward the field. As I ran, two 
or three dull whacks came to my ear. 

"Got him, Tom?" I shouted, rushing up. 

Tom was holding and squeezing one of his hands 
with the other and shaking it violently. He said 
not a word, and left me to poke about and stumble 
on the limp warm carcass of a large fox that lay 

" Bite ye?" I exclaimed, after satisfying myself 
that the fox was dead. 

" Some," said Tom ; and that was all I could get 
from him that night. 

We took the fox to the house and lighted a 
candle. It was the " silver- gray." 

Tom washed his bite in cold water and went to 
bed. Next morning he was in a sorry and a very 
sore plight. His left hand was bitten through the 
palm, and badly swollen. There was also a deep 
bite in the fleshy part of his right arm, just below 
the elbow, several minor nips in his left leg above 
the knee, and a ragged "grab" in the chin. 
These numerous bites, however, were followed by 
no serious ill effects. 

The next day, Tom told me that the fox had sud- 
denly plunged into the grass, that he had caught 
hold of one of its hind legs, and that they had 
rolled over and over in the grass together. He 
owned to me that when the fox bit him on the chin, 
he let go of the brute, and would have given up 
the fight, but that the fox had then actually at- 
tacked him. "Upon that," said Tom, "I just 
determined to have it out with him." 

Considering the fact that a fox is a very active, 
sharp-biting animal, and that this was an unusually 
large male, I have always thought Tom got off very 
well. I do not think that he ever cared to make a 
fox-trap of himself again, however. 

We sold the fox-skin in the village, and received 
thirteen dollars for it, whereas a common red fox- 
skin is worth no more than three dollars. 

How, or by what wiles that fox got the turkeys 
out of the high butternut, is a secret — one that 
perished with him. It would seem that he must 
either have climbed the tree, or else have practiced 
sorcery to make the turkey come down. 






By John Lewees. 

[T would be very natural in any of us to suppose 
lit no man who depended for his conveyance upon 
small a donkey as that one on the opposite page, 
uld be likely to go far enough to gain a reputa- 
n as a great traveler. But although a small 
nkey is not to be despised, when it comes to 
lling and carrying and bearing hardships, still 
19 man in the picture did not depend upon a 

Indeed, with the exception of his own legs, he 
I not really depend upon any of the ordinary 
2thods of traveling, for he seemed to be able to 
■ pretty much where he pleased, whether people 
general were able to get there or not. 
This man — Arminius Vambery — was born in 
ungary in 1832, and very early in life became 
ted for his knowledge of languages, especially 
ose of Eastern countries. The first use that he 
ade of his knowledge of these difficult tongues 
as to teach them to other people. 
He set up at Pesth as a teacher of languages ; but 
the Austrian authorities expelled him from the 
ty for political reasons, he concluded to travel, 
id put his acquirements to a practical use. So he 
ent to Constantinople, and thence to many parts 
the East, never before reached by a European 

Some of the places which he visited were con- 
dered to be sacred, and no unbeliever was allowed 
) come near them, under penalty of instant death 
■ere he discovered. But Vambery disguised him- 
;lf as a dervish, and traveled, sometimes alone and 
bmetimes with pilgrims and caravans, through the 
eserts of Tartary to the city of Khiva. From here 
\e made his way to Bokhara, a celebrated city of 
,Central Asia, one of the great seats of Mahometan 
earning. It ought to be a learned place as well 
i.s a religious one, for there are said to be one 
|iundred and three colleges and three hundred and 
lixty mosques within its walls. A good Mahom- 
etan in Bokhara might go to a different mosque 
:ilmost every day in the year. 

; When Vambery had satisfied his curiosity in 
3okhara, as far as was possible, he pushed on to 
; 5amarcand, an important city about one hundred 
:ind thirty miles to the east. Samarcand possesses 
:he tomb of Timur, and used to be the capital of 

one of the greatest empires ever known, and the 
center of Asiatic learning and commerce. But it 
has dwindled away very much since that time ; and 
when Vambery visited it, it was full of interest, of 
course, but bereft of much of its ancient magnifi- 
cence and splendor. 

We cannot follow Vambery in his various wan- 
derings. Sometimes he bestrode his little donkey, 
and sometimes he sailed in curious vessels on the 
Caspian Sea. He lived in Turcoman tents ; hunted 
wild beasts ; traveled with caravans ; rode alone on 
his camel at night through the solitary desert; met 
with escaped murderers who lived in caves ; came 
across a whole army of wild and savage asses, who 
offered battle to him and his party ; attended grand 
festivals, where all the guests plunged their hands 
into the dishes; went to fairs where everybody, 
buyers and sellers, was on horseback. 

At one time, he came very near being discovered 
by a sharp young prince, who declared that he 
believed he was an Englishman in disguise. But 
the good dervish, Vambery, seemed so offended 
and shocked at such a speech, that after awhile the 
prince was very sorry that he had hurt the poor 
man's feelings. 

At last our traveler, having reached the borders 
of Persia, on his homeward journey, threw off his 
disguise, and mounted on a good horse and at- 
tended by a faithful servant, soon reached Teheran, 
where he was cordially welcomed by both the 
English and the native citizens. Even the Persian 
King thought so well of his exploits that he made 
him a member of the Order of the Lion and the 
Sun. I don't know what particular advantage 
this was to Vambery, but it was a compliment, and 
I suppose he liked it. 

Vambery has written a book called " Travels and 
Adventures in Central Asia," and also several other 
books about Persia and Asia. 

When I last heard of him he was Professor of 
Oriental languages at the University of Pesth. 

It is a very fine thing to travel and see strange 
countries and strange people, but when you are 
obliged to make believe that you are a strange 
person yourself, and run the risk of being killed if 
you are found out, it would, in most cases, be better 
to stay at home. 





"Thou shalt have a ride to school on my sled," said Carl to his chub-b 
lit-tle sis-ter Ka-ren ; " and Gretch-en and I will be the horses." 

" Oh, that is beau-ti-ful ! " cried Ka-ren, with bright, beam-ing eyes ; 
and she danced a-round in her lit-tle red shoes. 

They were three Ger-man chil-dren who lived with their fath-er and 



ith-er in the far a-way West-ern State of Min-ne-so-ta, where it is so 
d in win-ter that the snow lasts a lone while. 

Then Carl pulled his sled out of the barn, and Ka-ren was seat-ed in 
: mid-die of it, with her lit-tle bask-et, which held three round cakes 
i a ro-sy ap-ple. Gretch-en pinned a large warm shawl o-ver her hood, 
t on her nice wool-en mit-tens, and, kiss-ing her sweet lit-tle face, said : 
^ook, how ro-sy she is ; " and Ka-ren smiled back on her, say-ing : 
A es, that is fine, dear sis-ter." 

Then Gretch-en put her lunch bask-et on the sled ; but Carl had his 
ich in a nap-kin, which he slung o-ver his shoul-ders ; and, tuck-ing his 
iu-sers in-to his boots, a-way they all went, laugh-ing and sing-ing. 
The lit-tle rob-ins scratched in the snow, cry-ing "Tweet, tweet, we 
int some-thing to eat." The pig-eons strutt-ed up and down the roofs 
the hous-es, or flew a-way to the barn, say-ing, soft-ly, " Coo, coo, coo, 
ne to the barn, ver-y good eat-ing there — coo, coo, coo ! " The pus-sy 

sneezed, and lift-ed her paws ver-y high, for she ha-ted the snow, and 
>hed it were al-ways sum-mer. 

But the lit-tle Ger-man chil-dren liked win-ter as well as sum-mer. 
ey were the ver-y best chil-dren in school that day ; and, when school 
s o-ver, Carl and Gretch-en grave Ka-ren an-oth-er de-ligdit-ful ride. 

I gave my puss a mac-a-roon, 
And bade her eat with a sil-ver spoon ; 
I brought a glass of spark-ling wine, 
And bade the pret-ty creat-ure dine. 

But see what came of it, a-lack ! 
That naught-y pus-sy turned her back ; 
Now was n't it a dread-ful sigfht 
To see a puss so im-po-lite ? 





GOOD-MORROW, my boys and girls ! What shall 
Jack tell you about this time ? Something about 
something, eh ? That 's easily done. What say 
you to 


The crows who live near my wood always build 
their nests of interwoven sticks and twigs, and they 
are strong enough to last year after year, if they 
are not as handsome as those of some other birds. 
But one of my crow-neighbors tells me that he has 
cousins who live on far-away islands where there 
are neither trees nor shrubs, and these crows build 
their nests, and very good-looking ones too, of the 
dried and bleached bones of large fish that have 
been thrown up on the shore. 

Queer nests, I should think, but they show the 
ingenuity and perseverance of the birds. How 
much better than to sit down and caw sulkily that 
they will not build any nests at all, because they 
can't get just the material they prefer for the pur- 


My Eastern children will say, "What a?-t> tumble- 
weeds ? " when they first see this paragram ; but 
the little Western folk will shout, "Ho! ho! 
we 've seen them ! The funniest things that ever 
were ! " 

All I know about them is that they belong to 
the Western prairies, but don't make their appear- 
ance until the land has been broken by the plow. 
Then they start up and take possession for a year 
or two, and after that they slowly disappear. 

They have great big heads, formed of a net-work 
of stiff little branches, and their roots are like 
slender young beets. Late in the season, when 
they get dry, the wind tears them up, roots and 
all, and off they go, skipping, flying and tumbling 
over the country like good fellows. They look, in 

the distance, like some sort of lively animals, at 
what is more, it would take a lively animal to catc 
them ; for sometimes, in a high wind, they can ou